


Foggy Lake

by GreenEyedDevil



Category: Justified
Genre: Child Murder, Descriptions of child abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Explicit Sexual Language, F/M, Friendship, Going Home, Language, M/M, Murder, Mystery, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Questionable Consent, Rape, Trauma, Unfinished, flashbacks to child abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-28
Updated: 2015-08-15
Packaged: 2018-04-06 14:52:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 30,931
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4226067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreenEyedDevil/pseuds/GreenEyedDevil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You can never go home again. That's what Tim Gutterson has known since he bailed on his home town at 17. Now he has to go back, for the funeral of a child and old suspicions are stirring up the bad blood between Tim and the residents of his old home town. Sent along to keep an eye on Tim, Raylan Givens is, for once, along for someone elses ride, trying to keep up and figure out just what in the hell TIm has taken them into.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first posting for Archives though I've posted on ff.net as RedRidingHood(I'll get around to importing my stories eventually). I'm trying hard to get back on my track with my writing so this is an idea I've been mulling over for a long time. I love Tim and like many think he's an underused character. But being as 'blank' as he is gives us room to play around. This is the first of what will hopefully be many explorations of his own background. There will be depictions and descriptions of violence towards adults and children, possibly some graphic ones. Notes are appreciated. This takes place between the 5th and 6th seasons with Rachel as acting chief. Thank you, and enjoy.

_“Tim?” when he tries to spot her it’s like she’s always just on the edge of his vision. When he moves, turns, so does she, always out of sight, always just out of reach._

_The lakeside is quiet and the thick fog covers everything. Tim feels like he’s alone on an island. Beyond the fog the ground stops, becomes nothing. He’s afraid to move forwards. If the world suddenly ends, he doesn’t know what he’ll fall into._

_“Tim,” she calls again and he turns, catches a glimpse of thick dark hair. “Will you come with me?”_

_He feels small and much younger than twelve. He’s cold and somewhere out in the fog something is moving. He can hear it huff as it breathes, hear it grunt. He can sense it’s hunger, it’s anger. It’s not a good something. It’s the kind that will rip and tear. It’s come for Meredith. He knows that but he can’t find her to protect her._

_“Tim, will you come with me?”_

_He reels as a shade flits by him once again._

_Out in the fog the monster is screaming._

Tim Gutterson ran. His chest burned around every breath and sweat ran down over every inch of his skin. His eyes burned, his muscles ached and cried out for peace, for rest but he ignored them. His feet slapped in time with his breath, the impact juddering up through his legs, his body, rattling his skull a little but he paid it no mind.

He was home. The streets of Foggy Lakes were beginning to glow gold as the sun sank behind the horizon and the outdoor lights and street lamps began to glow to life. After a pre-dawn to the long arduous drive home, Tim and Raylan Givens had been mentally and physically drained. They had checked into their motel room, fallen into their respective narrow beds and slept like the dead.

At least until Tim was woken by a strange and unpleasant dream about Meredith Rodham. He woke filled with uncomfortable fidgety energy, his head thick and addled. He had changed into running gear and headed into the night, hoping to catch the air cooling down, but it was only getting warmer. Still, he ran. He wondered if it might storm, hoped it would to clean out the dry and sticky air, wash away some of the dust.

As he ran he noted the changes that had come to his home town. Some money had found its way in and it showed in the renovated store fronts, the franchises cropping up around the slowly expanding streets. Tim ran past a funky vintage store, recalled it’s days as a dusty thrift store where Tim would dig through boxes in the hope of finding old comics or cool old sci-fi books, the library where he first found a copy of ‘Dune’ and had his pre-teen mind absolutely and permanently blown. The building had been renovated, modernised. Signs promised free internet, free wi-fi, a franchised coffee kiosk.

The bowling alley where his dad spent half his life getting hammered had gotten a family friendly make over, promised discounts for kids and birthday parties. Tim remembered it having the cheapest bar in town and a happy ‘hour’ that ran from 7 til 10. It was the starter bar for the town residents looking to get dangerously drunk at as little cost as they could. Now it promised a free cake for your kids birthday, shaped like the toy of their choice.

The ache and tightness in his legs was such that he knew he would have to stop soon, turn back, take some manner of a break, but he pushed on. He passed a diner where his father, in rare burst of good nature would take them to indulge in greasy burgers, fries and shakes. It had been cleaned up, shined up nice, brighter paint on the walls, better lighting and a menu that offered a vegetarian option. It was open, the lights on, the clientele inside laughing and chatting as they spoke. Tim saw a sign offering take out, made a mental note.

A new plaza had been built on the site of the town hall fire. The centuries old pine building had been burned to ash one Halloween when Tim was six years old. He was dressed up as a soldier and the school was taking a group of school children out trick or treating when they first smelled the burning wood and saw the orange glow on the night sky. They had run to look and watched the roaring flames eat the wood away to nothing, embers racing for the sky like fireflies who knew something humans didn’t.

The new plaza had grass and trees, comfortable benches and vintage street lamps to light it up, keep it safe. A few people walked around, sat on the grass, enjoying the last warm dark night.  A group of teenagers hung out on one such bench, talking and sharing a joint that Tim could smell as he jogged past. They watched him calmly, as relaxed as everyone else in the park, or more so, in honesty.

The humidity was rising and for the first time Tim seriously considered stopping. He hadn’t eaten or drunk anything like enough to have run this far and fast. But every time he slowed down he saw Meredith and the clawing discomfort of anxiety that was coiling in his gut would flare up, send a jolt of _something_ through his nervous system.

He tried to push through the flat, dull weakness flooding his legs, the feeling he had run through even his fumes.

He slowed down and he thought of Meredith Rodham. Gorge rose in his throat and without getting a say in the matter he doubled over and started to be sick.

**++**

Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens felt like his head was both filled with and coated in cotton wool and when he realised Tim Gutterson had left their shared motel room, the mans bed empty and unmade, his sense of confusion doubled down.

He stumbled to the bathroom, into the shower and after a ten seconds of ice cold and ten minutes of nearly scalding hot water he was wide awake and could recall pertinent facts, like who in the hell he was, why he was in an unfamiliar motel room and stirring awake at almost nine at night.  

He dried off and dressed as he got finished doing both he heard a knock at the door to the room and opened it to Tim Gutterson, uncomfortably pale and dripping with sweat. He wore joggers and a hoodie, had headphones slung around his shoulders, carrying a paper bag that smelled of burgers in one hand, and a bag of beers and bourbon in the other.

Tim walked in and crossed to the small breakfast table and laid the bags down. “Both are a quarter pounder and large fries,” Tim told him.

He said nothing else, disappeared into the bathroom and Raylan heard the shower start up. He had questions, but without thinking too much about it he found he was heading for the table, reaching for a burger and digging in. The burger was pretty damn good, tender juicy meat wrapped in a semi sweet bun, piled high with fried onions and crisp lettuce. The fries were crisped to perfection and the beer, some local brew Raylan didn’t recognise wasn’t Raylan’s favourite but it was cool and went perfectly with the meal.

 When Tim emerged from the bathroom some time later, he wore his sweat pants but had draped his towel over his shoulders rather than put his soiled shirt back on, flashing his torso, slender, decently toned which wasn’t a surprise for a former Ranger. He had a cursive L tattoed on his chest, a decent collection of scars, small and large that Raylan glimpsed at, then away from. He had seen them before, but they still drew his eye.

Tim crossed to an overnight bag on the end of his bed, digging around until he found a plain t-shirt to pull over his head and while he ruffled his hair with the towel to take out the worst of the water Raylan got a look at more scars on Tim’s back. He spotted a cluster of bullet wounds under Tim’s left shoulder blade that corresponded with a cluster of exit wounds on his front. There was what looked like a patch of burned skin on the back of his right bicep and a jagged network of angry red lines on his right hip, half concealed under the hem of his joggers.

He looked away, curious about each one but not sure it was right to ask. But he found himself looking back at the cluster of bullet wounds. He wasn’t sure he understood how Tim had survived such a wound.

Tim, being Tim, being a former sniper for the Rangers, had a preternatural sense he was being watched and turned, caught Raylan staring at the family of bullet wounds. “You want to ask how they happened?” he asked in his typical level drawl, pulling a t-shirt on.

“Sorry,” Raylan looked away, felt like a dick for staring.

“I don’t mind,” Tim took his seat at the table and unwrapped his food, broke open a beer and took a long dram.

Raylan frowned, suspicious of Tim’s open attitude. Tim didn’t exactly go out of his way to maintain his personal privacy but he certainly didn’t share a lot about himself, ever, at any time since Raylan had met him.

“We’re in my home town. My ‘aloof badass’ routine is blown all to shit,” Tim pointed out.

Raylan laughed, nodding. "It is," he agreed.

Tim waited patiently while Raylan worked out what he wanted to know. 

“Mostly I want to know how the hell you’re alive,” Raylan said. He motioned to his own torso in the same location as the cluster of bullet wounds, “this…looks like it was...bad.”

“It was,” Tim agreed.

Raylan waited for the story but Tim had started on his burger and fries and seemed content to work on them a little while so Raylan joined him. After a while, Tim drew on his beer again, washing down his food before he started to speak. “I was on a mountain side doing shit I can’t tell you about, but that involved shooting bad guys. Kid gets behind me, all of seventeen and he fires this 30 year old handgun into my back. Breaks some ribs, nicks a lung. Bled _everywhere_.”

“Jesus,” Raylan breathed. “How did you walk away from that?”

Tim shrugged, “I didn’t know I was shot at first. Medics said it was probably shock, adrenaline.”

“What happened to him? Kid who shot you?” Raylan asked.

He regretted it at once. Tim looked like he hadn’t expected the question and he chewed the inside of his mouth. “I had to kill him,” he said quietly.

Raylan fought not to sit in totally shocked silence. “How old were you?” he asked.

“About a week off’ve twenty,” Tim told him.

Raylan shook his head, felt angry and a little sad at the same time. “Pretty clear cut case of self-defence,” he said calmly, and Tim nodded.

“Yeah,” he agreed. “Still…sucked.” The final word was uttered with far more conviction and depth of meaning than you normally heard applied.

Raylan nodded. He knew what the simple expression was trying to say. Tim wasn’t someone who wanted to kill people, certainly not someone who had gone to war with that specific goal. He absolutely wasn’t someone who went to war to kill teenagers. His guilt about the act was obvious. His quiet process of locking it back away was more subtle, his expression closing off in small and careful ways.

They finished their food, their first beers, broke into their second each. “So, how’d you get out of it?” Raylan finally asked.

Tim blinked, remembered he hadn’t finished his story. “I don’t know. I’m told I dropped off comms sometime after the air strike finished my job for me. They came looking for me and I’d crawled halfway down the mountain before I passed out.”

“We got a badass over here,” Raylan teased and Tim grinned, nodded.

“I was a little proud of that part,” he admitted.

Raylan drew on his beer and glanced around the stuffy room, detected a stuffiness to the air.

“Wanna get out?” he asked.

Tim raised his eyes from the table top, looked half surprised. “You make a habit of going out drinkin’ in Harlan?” he asked.

Raylan thought about it. “Kinda.”

Tim laughed, but he was shaking his head no.

Raylan leant forwards, “Hear me out; we’re running out of alcohol.”

“We can buy more of that from a store,” Tim countered.

Raylan let out a small groan. “You got to go out for a jog,” he said. “You’ve walked all over, you’ve been in my _house.”_

“Nothin’ stopping you runnin’,” Tim reminded him. “I can draw you a route.”

Raylan sat in silence and let himself radiate sullenness. He pouted, slouched, sank down in his chair and generally made a big show of being bored.

Tim was watching the display, eyes lit with amusement. Raylan played it out a little longer before giving up and just staring directly at Tim.                                                                                                                                                                                

“This gonna go on all night?” the younger man asked.

Raylan nodded. Tim rolled his eyes. “You can’t wear the hat,” He eyed Raylan’s trademark Stetson that rested atop the bed Raylan had slept in.

“Deal” Raylan said. He liked his hat but this kind of clammy weather made it uncomfortable anyway.

Tim took a deep breath and slowly nodded. “Fine. Anything at all happens, it’s on you.”


	2. Smokes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raylan and Tim head out for drinks but are Tim's warning for nothing or does he have a real reason to be cautious?

Tim changed into jeans, wore a vaguely familiar checked red shirt over his tee-shirt and they headed out. They got to the Main Street and they stood for a while.

Tim casually, as if it was no big deal at all, reached into his pockets and withdrew a lighter and a pack of cigarettes. He handled the pack like and old hat, tapping one out and raising it to his mouth to pinch between his lips, lighting it one handed. Every movement was fluid and Raylan felt like he was watching an old habit emerge.

Tim inhaled deep and held it for a few seconds before exhaling a long plume of smoke.

“You smoke?” Raylan was frowning deep.

“Not really,” Tim said, taking a second drag.

Raylan blinked but he knew Tim well enough to know he wasn’t going to elaborate until he was ready, if he ever was. Raylan had spent enough time with Tim to know this wasn’t a regular thing, a current and ongoing habit, but he could recognise an experienced smoker when he saw one. If it was an old habit Tim had fallen back to, it probably wasn’t a good sign.

“You alright?” he asked, the question obvious but Raylan not much caring.

Tim inhaled, scratched his eyebrow with the thumb of the same hand, tapped the ash off. He ignored the question and checked up and down the street, watching the few pedestrians, a car that cruised past slowly.  Raylan waited a while and eventually Tim turned to him. “So, I left town when I was seventeen.”

“That’s adorable,” Raylan said.

“I mean I never got to know the bars. I know most folks favoured the bowling alley since it was like ‘Roadhouse’. I ran by before, looks…friendlier,” Tim said, turning to lead the way.

“How like ‘Roadhouse’?” Raylan asked. “You used to practice Tai Chi on the shores of your lake?”

“Only when I could be totally nude,” Tim said.

Raylan laughed, a real one. The walk was a decent length, or Tim took a route that was, walking off their dinner and some of the beers they had already indulged. Tim smoked slowly, having to relight a few times but he managed each occasion without pausing or breaking his step.

Raylan had wondered if Tim might offer a commentary, a spoken tour but it didn’t materialise. Tim spoke if Raylan asked something but he wasn’t pointing out favoured spots or adding any context to what they saw.

“So many memories,” Raylan said pointedly. “This is the corner where I first kissed Wendy Hornberger. Over there is where I threw the winning touchdown and saved the Youth Centre from demolition.”

Tim watched the performance with a half-smile. Raylan spotted a diner with the same sign as the logo on the food Tim brought back. “When I graduated my daddy took me for a burger and fries in that there diner and he told me how proud he was of me.”

Tim laughed this time, not just at Raylan’s play acting.  Both of them knew Raylan was engaging in the highest of fantasy at this point. If Arlo had ever taken Raylan out for food, Raylan would have assumed there was poison in it. And there would have been.

“When I graduated Arlo….actually he was in prison,” Raylan recalled as he stretched his legs a little to catch up, having fallen behind the younger Marshal.  Their difference in height was just enough that one or both had to adjust their pace to walk in step but they had gotten used to it long ago.

“I never bothered,” Tim shook his head. “Picked up a GED, eventually.” 

Raylan settled into a rhythm beside the younger man. Their difference in height was just enough that one or both had to adjust their pace to walk in step but they had gotten used to it long ago.

“Any reason why you didn’t? You seem smart enough. I mean you can spell your name and you hardly ever write reports in crayons anymore,” Raylan told him, still teasing. They both understood the sincerity behind the words, their mutual jibes.

Raylan knew for a fact Tim was smart. Sometimes he found it a little intimidating. Tim barely spoke, read books about magical warrior princesses and once, when they had to baby sit a 12 year old witness, Tim talked with the boy for three hours about Pacman. But when he did speak it meant something. He favoured books written for teenagers, but simultaneously, Raylan had seen him finish an 800 page tome about Napoleon in thirteen days and Raylan was confident he had memorised every single word. And the discussion about Pacman had been an in depth exploration of the history of video gaming going back to the earliest days. He had been a sniper. He had to be intelligent.

“Rachel took my crayons away from me. But I can do my letters in pencil now. Next week; biros,” Tim was playing along.

 They walked on in a comfortable silence but one Raylan knew this time his question wasn’t being ignored. He was getting used to how Tim talked about himself. It didn’t come easily or totally naturally and it was a slow, sometimes halting process but Raylan didn’t mind waiting it out.

Tim took a long drag and talked around it as he exhaled. “There was this thing with my dad,” he said, “and when I got out of hospital he wouldn’t let me move back in. I didn’t have any couches to sleep on and it got harder to go to school, so I stopped.”

Raylan blinked, “Hospital?”

“It was a pretty serious thing.” Tim said mildly, becoming the living embodiment of the understatement. He finished his cigarette, crushing it against the wall so any remains of the cherry fell to the ground and dimmed and he threw the remains of the butt and filter in a trash can they walked past.

He turned a corner and they approached the bowling alley. A brightly lit sign told Raylan it was called Pins and they joined a few other customers approaching they door. Two families were leaving. One smiled and laughed at some private joke. The son, a kid of 12 was half skipping alongside his long legged father, talking animatedly, his hands drawing out shapes to emphasise his point. The older daughter walked with her mother and despite her ‘too cool’ Rock Chick outfit, she had her arm looped through her moms, showing off something on her phone.

Behind them a less happy family marched towards their car. Mom carried two grumpy toddlers, their faces and shirt fronts coated in sticky and half dried ice cream. Her husband marched behind a sulking tween girl who pouted and stomped her way across the lot.

Raylan and Tim watched them go. Another family left as they reached the door and headed inside. Tim pulled up short so close to the door hat Raylan almost ran into the back of him.

A large, hard to miss sign inside made it clear that after 10pm the ‘Family Time’ was over. Anyone underage had to leave and as they looked around Raylan began to understand the ‘Roadhouse’ conversation.

The bowling alley was basically two establishments; On one side, the alley with its colourful lights and milkshakes and big eyed cartoon faces painted on almost every surface. On the other, a real spit and sawdust bar with  The lanes and brightly coloured family area of the alley were being shut down, the lights dimmed while pair of teenagers wrangled floor polishers in the lanes. Another kid cleaned off plastic, easy wipe tables and chairs, sweeping the remains of kid meals into a trash bag.

In the ‘family’ half a brightly coloured, franchised looking kiosk served hot food, candy and desserts. A few beers but a sign seemed to suggest a limit on how many you could have. Getting drunk before 10pm was a no no.

Tim was looking at a darker corner of the bowling alley. It was the house of the real bar, where all the fun happened. A house band was warmed up and setting the mood with some heavy, twangy guitars . Raylan could see the remains of what might have been a redneck style barricade around the stage.  There were two pool tables set up in a nook just the right size

Behind the actual bar Raylan saw beers and spirits, the grown up drinks. A bartender was setting out bar snacks in plastic dishes, beer nuts and pretzels laid out in front eager patrons while her co-worker began to take the first of the orders from the eager patrons.

 The men and women waiting to drink ran from young to old, fat to thin. Some slouched in wearing sweatpants and trucker hats while some were dressed up like the nights drinks would be the social highlight of the Season.

Tim visibly hesitated, wouldn’t go further, but Raylan brushed by. “Go get a table before they fill up,” he leaned in to be heard over the music.

Tim’s posture was rigid, his shoulders locked up and Raylan caught the look on his face, wide eyes but the expression locked down, cold and stern.

Raylan carried on to the bar, leaning on it when he got there and pretending he wasn’t blatantly checking that Tim had listened. He had, and Raylan spotted the slight frame weaving through a small group of chatting drinkers, heading for the most out of sight table he could find.

Raylan noticed the locals notice Tim. There was curiosity on a few faces, attraction for the handsome young Marshal on others. Some tried to recognise him, some looked like they already may, or at least realised he wasn’t a total stranger. Raylan drew a few stares himself. He was taller than a lot of people and most assuredly a stranger to everyone in the bar. He was good looking too and it drew equal parts attraction and ire. He used his powers for evil, flashing a grin at the barmaid when he caught her eye and she sashayed across to him.

“Can I get your and your friend a drink?” she asked over the music.

“Two beers, two bourbons,” Raylan asked. “Each.”

She nodded, acting impressed and turned away to fill the orders. Raylan looked around for Tim, spotted at a table set in a corner.

She filled the order and his subtle flirting saved him a few dollars and won them a free tray of chips and dip. Raylan carried he beers and chips over to Tim and set them down, returning for the bourbons and to collect his change. He spotted the barmaid a ways down the bar but as he waited the manager, or at least a middle aged dude who looked like an aging biker and radiated boredom crossed with his change in hand. “Hey, you visitin’?” the manager asked as he dropped a couple of bills and some change into Raylan’s waiting palm.

“Just for a few days,” Raylan nodded.

“You got people around here?” the guy asked, playing ‘casual curiosity’ with admirable conviction.

“No sir,” Raylan shook his head.

“Your friend?” the manager asked him.

Raylan frowned, taken aback by the question. The tone of it was different, blunter.

“Pardon?” he asked.

“Your friend,” the manager jerked his chin towards Tim over in his corner. “He got people? He looks so familiar it’s drivin’ me crazy.”

Raylan didn’t even consider saying yes, but he wasn’t sure why. “I wouldn’t know. We work together.” He grinned wide, like he was a moron and buzzed and only half following the exchange.

He took the drinks, turned away and headed back to their table but found himself decide not to tell Tim about the barmans questions.

Back in Lexington Tim had told Raylan and their acting chief and friend, Rachel Brooks about the funeral for a girl who died twenty years ago. He had no plans to attend the service but on request he intended to visit with the girls mother, tell her his account of the day her daughter died. There was, it appeared, some dispute over the facts. Tim hadn’t said much more, but it had been enough that Rachel decided he needed an escort.

Now, Raylan found himself on edge. He took his seat, set out their drinks and the snacks and joined Tim in people watching, checking faces, noticing the attention they were being paid, working out if it was the wrong kind or not.

While they were definitely being watched and noticed but so far, no one was _too_ interested.

The atmosphere was nice, the music was good and they sat and listened, drank their drinks, ate their chips. Tim was by no means relaxed but he tried to be, watching the band calmly, impassively. He was doing that ‘sniper’ thing where he disappeared, became utterly still. The eeriest part was that he didn’t just freeze. He seemed to be able to withdraw his very presence from the air around him. Raylan knew from experience that people had a natural instinct for the presence of others. It was why you could return to a quiet house and know if it was empty or if someone was inside, unseen.

Tim could turn that off. If Raylan looked away, he felt like he was sitting alone rather than sharing a table with a co-worker and friend.

“You do that as a kid or learn it in the Army?” he found he was asking Tim, picking up his beer and taking a sip. He rested it atop his knee rather than back on the table, the cool glass pleasant against his fingertips.

Tim glanced at him. “Drinking?”

“That,” Raylan motioned towards Tim, indicating the posture, the careful stillness. Even Tim’s glance had been a tiny, almost imperceptible movement of his head, so taut and controlled that it looked artificial, like Tim was a machine. “Blending in. Doin’ your impression of a tiger in the long grass.”

“I learned to be quiet a long time ago,” Tim said, another of those vague allusions to something sad and horrible a long time ago.

They finished their drinks and Raylan went back for more. The flirtatious young barmaid served him the same order again but this time her nosy boss didn’t turn up to muscle in so Raylan scored more snacks and she promised to try and discretely drop a half bottle of bourbon off at their table if they stayed past midnight.

The place was busy but the mood stayed pleasant, most people enjoying their good time and their buzz and their few, responsibility free hours. Tim’s drinks got to him and he began to unwind, fractionally and slowly, getting more comfortable in his seat, getting into the music. They began to talk about music, what they liked and didn’t and Raylan wasn’t surprised to hear Tim’s tastes were eclectic, his knowledge detailed and expansive.

Tim finished his beer. “I’ll be back,” he rose, heading for the exit. Raylan, a little merry, was briefly confused but he remembered the cigarettes and Tim’s new old habit that he wouldn’t admit to having.

He let him go. Over the bar a TV had been turned on and there was some form of sports on. Raylan tuned out a little, let the music lull him, watched the brightly coloured screen flicker and move. He noticed movement and though he was tipsy a few different instincts made him turn. He saw three guys leaving, trailing out in a line like they were boarding a bus. One of them glanced back, caught Raylan’s eye and looked away quickly.

Raylan watched them go, feeling a faint trill of something like alarm and when he turned back to their table he began to realise he wasn’t quite sure how long Tim had been gone. He was on his feet and weaving through the crowds without much thought about the process but the bar was pretty rammed by that point. It took more time than he would like to pick his way to the door, grumbling to himself about fire safety and overcrowding.

When he finally reached the outside the air was just as thick and heavy as it had been indoors and he grimaced, glanced skyward in the hopes he could somehow spot the signs of approaching rain, something heavy that would wash the air clean, but there was nothing that suggested relief.

He glanced around, saw a small crowd of those who had gone outside to smoke but he couldn’t spot Tim. He couldn’t spot the three men who had filed out of the bar either. He glanced around, saw the narrow alley way that ran along the side of the building and turned towards it, picking up pace the closer he got.

He rounded the corner in time to see Tim’s skinny ass get tossed into the side of the dumpster. He was back up again as soon as he touched the ground and he came up swinging. Raylan caught a flash of red, saw blood already covering the lower half of Tims's face. The former Rangers closed fist slammed into the gut of one attacker who had  a crop of red hair, so hard the bigger man folded in half, and TIm, murder in his eyes, rounded on his second attacker, a blonde. A third, a brunette intercepted, managed to catch one of Tim's arms, twist it so he could get at the other. Tim was restrained and the second assailant moved fast, one fist crashing into Tim’s solar plexus before he struck out twice, and fast, at Tim’s face. 

It all happened in the time it took Raylan to sprint into the alley way and grab the collar of the blonde, yanking backwards as hard as he could. The third man let Tim go to face Raylan and the younger Marshal fell to the ground, wheezing and gasping for air. Raylan dodged the wild swing by the third guy and backhanded him across the face, sending him reeling to the ground, drew his arm back to keep teaching the man a lesson in manners.

“Hey!” Raylan turned, got a glimpse of a uniform and a badge and threw his hands up quickly.

“US Marshals!” He barked automatically, though here there was a good chance it meant nothing since they were in town on personal business. He ducked down, hauled Tim to his feet, making damn sure the bloodied face Tim was sporting now got caught in the uniforms flashlight beam.

“The hell is goin’ on?” the deputy was tall bulky but since he was behind the light Raylan couldn’t say much else.

“Near as I can tell they jumped my partner here,” Raylan said, keeping his free hand open, supporting Tim more than he was happy about with the other. "I was trying to break it up."

He didn't mention that if not for the intervention he'd have 'broken' the fight up for a good few minutes more, using his fists and his feet if he damn well had to. 

“Henderson? Steve, that you? The fuck you doin’?” the deputy strode into the alleyway, easily convinced of his own control of the situation.

The groaning men, drunks, slowly got to their feet and as they did Raylan moved himself and Tim away from them

“They got any reason to jump your partner?” The deputy asked but he was letting Raylan move away.

“None as near as I know,” Raylan said honestly.

Tim lurched, pushed himself away from Raylan and was sick noisily on the ground. “He been drinkin’?” the deputy asked pointedly.

“We’re at a bar,” Raylan stated, making sure his tone reflected his frustration at even being asked.

The deputy shook his head, stood amongst the drunks as they all got upright, all glaring not at Raylan, but Tim, still Tim. The young Marshal was pushing himself up on the wall and Raylan sensed him move, heading back to the fight. Raylan stepped backwards without taking his eyes of the deputy, stepped into Tim, pushed him back with more than a little force. Tim didn't want to move but Raylan didn't let up, reached back and latched a hand onto the front of Tim's shirt to send a clear signal to his young friend that he would not be allowed back into the fray.

“I’ll fuck you up, Gutterson!” the blonde croaked , barely able to stand upright.

The Deputy turned like he was on a wheel, eyes locking on the furious young Marshal. “Tim?!”

Raylan sensed Tim go still, try and do the disappearing thing.

The Deputy glanced around and seemed to catch himself. “You stayin’ in town?” he asked Raylan, dropping the volume of his voice just a shade.

Raylan nodded. “Got no intention of sayin’ where, though,” he looked at the three assailants, made it obvious why.

“I can find you easy enough, Marshal,” the Deputy said. “Take him back there and I’ll come get his statement later.”

He turned away, signalled the conversation was over. Raylan didn’t argue. He turned, got a grip on Tim’s arm and dragged him out of the alleyway.


	3. Then

_Tim was 12 and he was lonely but he’d die before he would admit that. When Meredith Rodham walked the long walk up the road to the house to ask him to come with him for her birthday, he was honestly confused._

_He had a few ‘friends’, people he spoke to, maybe even occasionally ate lunch in the general vicinity of. But real friends who he had plans to see every day of the summer were not something he was familiar with._

_To be asked, specifically invited to someone elses birthday was strange for him, strange enough to suspect there was some sinister motive behind it, and he called her out to her face. But she insisted. And Tim could read people and he could do it very well and he couldn’t see the lie he thought she was telling him._

_So, cautiously, he agreed. And took a short cut from his house down into town and when they reached the built up settlement of homes and stores Meredith turned a corner and they began to walk to Millers Genera_ l Store.


	4. Chapter 4

Raylan unlocked the room door for the second time in just a few minutes and slipped inside, glancing around as he did. He was paranoid they could have been followed by the men from the bar but he couldn’t spot anyone that he hadn’t seen already.

He had left Tim sitting on the bed but when he got back the younger Marshal was slumped over onto his pillow. Raylan sat him up and Tim stirred easily but he was groggy and Raylan couldn’t tell if it was a head injury or the booze but suspected, perhaps, both.

He examined the injuries; Tim had a bloodied nose, swelling under one eye and bruising to the cheek and temple of the same one. He kept one arm clamped around his torso, visibly in pain and hunched forwards around the ache. “Where you want the ice?” Raylan asked but Tim said nothing, seemed dazed or just incredibly pissed off to the point he was incapable of speech.

Raylan shrugged. He made up an ice pack out of the ice and a motel towel, handing it Tim and when the former Ranger stared at it like it might bite him Raylan guided his arm, the ice pack, to his face.

Raylan fell into nurse mode. He ducked back to the bathroom and dampened a wash cloth under the tap, ran a glass of water while he was there and carried everything back out to the room. From his own overnight bag he pulled out a blister pack of aspirin. He returned to Tim and passed him the aspirins first and while Tim chewed two Raylan passed him the washcloth.

Tim stared at it. “You’re bleedin’,” Raylan pointed out.

Tim just nodded, ran the damp cloth over his face and mopped away the worst of the blood and dirt from being tossed on the floor or into the dumpster. He remained silent, keeping the ice pressed to his head and Raylan left him to it, call it a sulk or shock or whatever it was.

Raylan found the bottle of bourbon and poured himself a drink, and after a moment of thought he made one for Tim as well and set it on the small bedside table where Tim could reach it.  Tim took it without needing to look up, drained it in one go. He hissed in pain, swilled the booze round his mouth and swallowed. He reached inside his mouth with one finger, probing, found something and winced again. “I bit my cheek,” he croaked, his first words in a while.

“I saw a comedian once claim that biting the inside of your mouth is proof of evolution. Says you’re never less Divine than when you try and eat your own face instead of a mouthful of pasta,” Raylan recalled.

Tim thought about it. “Makes sense,” he nodded, voice still strained from the pain he was enduring.

“So,” Raylan said, fixing Tim with a long and pointed glare. “Those guys just seemed super excited to have you back home, huh?”

Before Tim could speak there was a firm, lawmans knock at their motel room door and after a quick check to see who it was, Raylan opened it up for the tall deputy from the alleyway.

“Sam Logan,” the man held out a hand for Raylan but he was already half pushing his way into the room, looking around for Tim. “Foggy Lake Sheriff’s department.”

“Deputy US Marshal Raylan Givens,” Raylan told the side of Sam’s face as the big man made a bee line for Tim. “Come in, make yourself at home.”

The younger Marshal saw him coming and to Raylan’s dismay he rose to his feet, his posture bordering on confrontational. This was all very wrong. Tim didn’t jumped in alleyways and he didn’t make it pretty clear he might fight a local Deputy. All that shit was Raylan.

“You’re alive,” Sam had stopped,  was stating more than asking, his expression one of legitimate surprise. “You’re actually alive. I heard you was on Seal Team 6 or some shit, died shootin’ Talibans.”

Tim looked hunted, looked pissed someone was between him and the door and Sam seemed to sense that, took a few steps back so he wasn’t penning Tim into a corner quite so much. “Army Rangers. And there’s no S. Taliban is the plural form. Talib is the singular.”

Sam blinked at the grammar lesson and was staring a little bit so Raylan edged back into the room, the conversation. “Can I get you a drink, Deputy?” he asked. “Or can you possible get me an explanation as to what the hell just happened to my friend?”

“You in for the funeral?” Sam asked Tim.

Raylan shrugged at being completely ignored, turned away and poured himself another bourbon and figured he could leave them to it for a while.

“I was thinkin’ about it,” Tim said. He took the ice pack away from his head, flashing the bruising and swelling already forming around his eye. “Getting’ a strong vibe I’m not welcome, though.”

Sam took a breath, taken aback by Tim’s presence but trying to think rationally. “How…who invited you?” he asked and there was a note in his voice like he didn’t want to sound too harsh in his question.

Tim gave up the act he could comfortably stand and sank back down onto the bed, leaning back against the headboard with his arm still wrapped around his torso. “Bess called me,” he said, sounding tired and in pain. “Asked me to come.”

Sam was silent for a long time. “To the funeral?” he asked.

“Not specifically, not in so many words,” Tim admitted. “She said she wanted to talk to me about Meredith.”

“What, specifically, did she want to talk about?” Sam asked.

There was another note in his voice now, one that made Raylan really take notice. Sam was asking much more than he was actually saying, but Raylan had no idea what he was missing.

Tim lowered the ice pack and opened both eyes to look at the Deputy and old acquaintance. “About the day she disappeared, Sam. Specifically.”

Sam started to speak but he remembered himself, glanced at Raylan then back again. “You got designs on what you’ll say?” he asked.

Tim was silent, didn’t bother to glance at Raylan since he knew damn well the man was there, or so Raylan assumed. “Probably the truth.”

Sam sighed. “Which one?”

Tim closed his eyes and laid his head back again. “I don’t know, man.”

Sam tapped his hand against his thigh, a nervous tick perhaps. “She drinks a lot, Tim. She’s on meds. There’s a chance she’s forgotten she called you already. If you’re going to see her, at least let me speak with her first, check she’s….cogent, you know? I'll take you over there tomorrow evening, after the funeral and everyone goes home.”

Tim didn’t speak for a long time and for a second Raylan thought he might have drifted off. Even Sam seemed to start forwards in concern when Tim finally opened his mouth. “Come by at some point, I guess. Call up to the room and we can head over.”

“I’ll come by before. You can come over to the house, I’ll make you both dinner or something. I’m still up at the farm. Lucy moved closer to town. Mom and dad are in Florida. It’s just me,” Sam turned to Raylan and for the first time a more natural friendliness could show through. “Sorry for…sorry,” he held out a hand to shake and Raylan, taken aback, took it, shook it firmly. “You’ll come for dinner?”

“No problem. I’m absolutely fuckin’ clueless to what’s happening but I don’t have any reason to hold you responsible. Those fellas from the bar, are they gettin’ charged?”

“They’re in cells right now, it’s up to this asshole,” Sam turned back to Tim falling back on some old, familiar tone

“Leave them there over night, make it clear they come near me again I’ll shoot them to death and use my badge to get away with it.” Tim said, sounding somewhere between joking and disturbingly serious.

Sam forced a laugh. But neither Tim nor Raylan shared his mirth and he looked a little disturbed. “I’ll pass the message on,” he nodded. “I’ll call up tomorrow.”

He turned, left in silence and left Raylan staring, baffled.

“So, Tim?” Raylan poured another drink, refilled Tim’s and took a seat at the table, settled in and got comfortable. “What the living shit is going on?”


	5. Chapter 5

_**Then** _

_Millers General Store was the oldest shop in town. It was by no means the only one, not any more but it was still owned by the same original family, still stood in the same old wooden building as it had for years. There was a fairly good chance it was a dangerous fire hazard with the dried old wood surrounding humming fridges and lighted signs but so far, it had stood the test of time._

_Though some kids in Foggy Lake had parents with enough cash to hand out pocket money,  stealing from Millers was practically a cultural past time. Meredith explained to Tim that they needed snacks, smokes and booze for her planned camping trip up at the lake and that they would need his fast hands and uncanny ability to move quick and silent to get behind the counter while Meredith distracted the server._

_They had been met near the store by Meredith’s friend Lucy and two years older brother Sam, the pair tall and athletic with Scandinavian blonde hair, marked contrasts to the slight, raven haired Meredith and equally lightly built, dirty blonde Tim._

_Meredith ran interference with the store keeper while Sam filled a backpack with chips and candy bars, Lucy sneaking sodas while she simultaneously kept watch on the door, looking out for approaching customers._

_Tim was good, really good at moving like a shadow and he was behind the counter within seconds. He reached into the backs of the racks to grab bottles of alcohol and packs of smokes, ensuring their absence wouldn’t be noticed right away. Part of him wanted to steal cash from the register but he couldn’t figure out how to open it quickly enough. But he wanted some other trophy. Duke Miller who ran the store now was as mean as bitter old man could get. He drank every day from the moment he woke up and it left him irrational and prone to fits of violence. He always, often correctly suspected he was being robbed but his method of addressing the issue was never to call the police, but to chase and attack the kids he suspected of stealing from him._

_Tim had taken his fair share of beatings, and Duke Miller knew his father, knew Henry would box Tim around the house at any given opportunity, he always called if he saw Tim around the store, whether he caught Tim stealing or not._

_Tim wanted something, something tangible from Duke Miller, maybe something he could keep for ever, knowing Duke would never suspect he was there. He looked around and saw it. The paddle. Duke’s infamous wooden paddle had struck the rump of every child in Foggy Lake, guilty or no, and there it sat in front of Tim. He grabbed it, shoved it into his rucksack with the drinks and the cigarettes and without a further thought he had run for the door._

_The plan was to split up, meet up a ways down the road so they weren’t seen leaving together and Tim began his journey to the right spot, moving fast without trying to seem like he was hurrying._

_He risked a glance back, saw Lucy emerging, acting casual as she took off in a slightly different direction from him. Tim turned back around, ran face first into a solid figure who reeked of booze. Tim’s shirt front was grabbed and before he could react he was slapped in the face, thrown to the ground._

_Tim heard the bottles in his bag clink and looked up into the beady, blood shot eyes of Duke Miller. “Guess I’ll have to call your daddy, tell him his whelp is off the chain again. “_


	6. Chapter 6

It took a while, and few more drinks before Tim came around to idea of actually speaking. Raylan waited it out once again.

“Remind me again what I told you?” Tim finally asked him, sounding actually drunk now.

Raylan, more than a few sheets to the wind himself thought on it. “They found a skeleton of a girl, died on her thirteenth birthday. Officially she was camping near a lake with you, and a few other friends. She got drunker than the rest of you, and she walked into the lake on accident and drowned.”

Tim nodded along and Raylan kept going. “But you told Rachel that there’s some debate on the factual nature of those ‘facts’.”

“Feel like I should give you a gold star,” Tim told him.

“So how much of the story is bullshit?” Raylan asked, getting down to it.

“It’s not so much what’s bullshit, it’s what’s cut out,” Tim explained. The ice had long since melted and soaked the towel, which Raylan had taken and tossed into the sink to save Tim’s bruised torso if he had to make the journey himself. The swelling on his face had been halted and maybe wouldn’t even be too bad, but morning would tell. “Basically, two high schoolers came. We had run into them earlier in the day. There was this store keeper who got rough with me when he caught me liftin’ from his store.  But to the point he was out of control,” Tim winced at the memory. “These older guys intervened on my behalf, high schoolers. We talked to them a little and they knew Sam from some football stuff. Meredith told them about her birthday…they offered to stop by our camp later on, on their way to another party. Said they’d drop off a present.”

“What was the present?” Raylan asked.

“A little bit of weed, some beers. Meredith got sick from a joint. She over did it and she puked. She was fine right after, weed does that,” Tim shrugged. “And then the guys went on to their own party.”

Raylan thought on it while. “They double back? Hurt the girl at all?”

“There aint a single shred of evidence they did,” Tim said. “S’why I was so confused why we had to lie about it. It was still just an accident. Meredith got drunk, fell in the lake. But one was a cops kid and both of them were on the football team. Sheriff explained to us…mostly to me that with no evidence they did something wrong, it wasn’t right or fair to tarnish their reputations with stories they gave drugs to a bunch of 12 year olds.”

Raylan, mind a little addled, followed along. “….why does that mean those three guys just rolled your ass in the alleyway? Is all this even connected?”

Tim took a long, deep breath. “When I was uh…when I wouldn’t agree to the official story ‘someone’ started a rumour I was trying to deflect attention from myself.”

Raylan paused and it took longer than he liked to understand but eventually he got all the words in the right order; “People in your home town believe that you may have had something to do with the death of a thirteen year old girl, because you refused to lie about the day she actually died?” he said slowly.

Tim nodded. “That’s the thrust of it.”

Raylan took a long, deep breath. “You’re never allowed to give me shit about Boyd or Harlan or Ava, ever, ever again.”

Tim managed a small laugh. “No, I can. All this happened to me before I had hair on my balls. You’ve made informed, bad decisions as a grown ass adult.”

“Shit…I did,” Raylan agreed. He thought for a second. “So…Sam was one of the other kids that day?”

“And his sister. They toed the party line. Sam wanted to get on the football team in a couple years time, he was older than us so he was staring down High School much sooner. Lucy…I don’t know, her best friend just died, maybe she was…I don’t know,” he was quiet now, getting tired and maybe too drunk to hide it much longer. “I never found out. Never spoke to her again, not much to Sam either. I didn’t have many friend before. I had none after.”

Raylan was sad and angry in all the ways booze can make you, but it was real anger as well, for a co worker, hell a friend.

“So Deputy Sam….he’s worried you’ll tell this mom, Bess, the truth?”

“Guess he is,” Tim said. “I haven’t even decided that I will.” He drained his most recent drink and reached out for the bottle again. There wasn’t much left now but he poured it out, having to concentrate to do it. He left just enough for Raylan, passing the bottle over. “It don’t do her any good, to know the full story. But maybe it does.” He shrugged, drained his drink in one go. “I gotta sleep.”

As Raylan watched Tim kicked off his shoes and moving slowly, painfully he began to ready for bed.


	7. Chapter 7

**Then**

_The campfire was almost, almost too big, too tall but it was controlled and contained. Tim knew how to build a fire and he’d quietly but firmly taken over the task of putting one together at their lake side campsite. Lucy set up tents she had carried in one bag,  while Meredith and Sam helped gather wood fuel. They snacked on what they had taken from Millers but as night fell, Sam reached into his bag and retrieved a pot and packs of dried noodles, the kind you just needed hot water for. He had a packet of cooked chicken slices to and between he and his sister they made a simple but hardy dish of chicken noodles, washed down with stolen beers and for dessert they ate stolen twinkies._

_They talked a little about school, the teachers Lucy, Meredith and Tim already hated, the ones they had to come that Sam warned them about. They talked about the spot on the approaching horizon that was High School, about the older kids they saw around town, who they hated, who they liked._

_Earlier, Norman Dayes and Cubby Quest had hauled Duke Miller off’ve Tim and had offered to stop by the party. It was social dynamite. Tim had never given a shit about his stakes, his social ranking until it seemed like two of the most well liked, well respected high schoolers in town seemed to want to spend time with a gang of kids. They all knew it was Sam the older boys were sniffing out, checking to see how cool he was or wasn’t for his potential to be an important figure on the football team. But by proxy, that made them cool too, surely.  
It had to. So they let them come._


	8. Chapter 8

**Now**

Tim ached. He was bruised but good but a hot and cold shower had taken the worst of the swelling out of his battered torso. His face could have looked like hamburger meet but Raylan’s make shift ice pack had worked decent trick, leaving Tim bruised but nothing like as swollen as he could have been.

He woke some time around ten, aware the funeral was already ongoing, aware by now people knew he was in tow, more people than had ten hours before. He didn’t want to move. He didn’t want to do much of anything. He didn’t want to wallow either, though.

He had hoped, really hoped that given the long absence and his rumoured heroism that maybe people would have cooled down, forgotten even but they hadn’t. He’d had that thrown in his face last night. Slammed into his face, actually, before his face got slammed into a dumpster. 

He’d never admit it out loud, he hadn’t admitted it after his body weight in booze and he might take it to his grave, but he hated that he had no home to go to.

 He had wanted one. Especially in the desert on the really long, dark nights, the ones that felt like they would last for ever when the sky was strangely starless and even the moon ran for cover. He had wanted the security of knowing that when his service was done he would have a home to return to.

Tim hadn’t even liked his house all that much. Too much bad shit had happened inside those walls. But when his time with the Army had ended, and before his Glynco placement came through, he had been effectively homeless. By then, he had more couches to sleep on, actual friends to lean on and even better, they were the kind that would politely ignore Tim’s….disrupted sleeping habits. Or would let him drink himself into a coma if it meant he didn’t wake up screaming. It would have been nice to come home to an actual home.

His father was dead. His mother had been AWOL since the day he turned three. His house wasn’t even his anymore. He owned it but it was rented out to a local family. He wasn’t sure how much Sam knew, but Lucy had been managing it for him, for years. She was the closest he had to a connection to his home town and their few shared letters were all business anyway. She hadn’t even mentioned Sam becoming a Deputy.

Tim didn’t usually let his mind wander like this. He didn’t wallow in self-pity, not if he could avoid it, or drown it in booze but being home was fucking with his head and he couldn’t shake it off like he wanted. He wanted to run again. It would hurt. And people would see him But if he didn’t run he might start drinking. No day when Tim started drinking before eleven had ever ended well. One had landed him in hospital. That was between tours and years later a shrink would highlight it as the first sign Tim’s service was leaving more than just physical scars on him.

The room felt over warm and Tim’s skin was itching beneath the blankets. He wanted to shower again, wash of a nights worth of sweat. He hadn’t woken screaming but his sleep had not been peaceful. He couldn’t ignore it any more, that or the pressing in his bladder. He was getting up.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim takes a walk to visit with Sam.

Tim abandoned the idea of a run but he needed to get out, needed to walk. He showered and dressed, left a note for Raylan that he was headed out, that he would be back some time later. He left directions for the diner where he got their food yesterday, made it clear he had his phone, his ID. His gun.

He wore his same jeans, his boots, pulled on a black t-shirt and the dark jacket he favoured for work and headed out. There had been a small break in the heat at some point, but it was building back up. Mercifully, clouds had finally begun to gather and there was the occasional and faint breeze that carried the smell of rain and atmosphere. The storm would break soon, wash some of the ugly heat away.

Tim started to walk with no one place in mind, but but he found his feet carrying him away from buildings and from people. The old road that led out of the town proper had been repaved since Tim has gone but the heat had still split the tarmac some, the dry summer coating it with dust. But it was familiar and Tim covered it quickly, having to remind himself he had grown some since he was last here.

He wanted to speak to Sam. He was angry about their conversation the night before but he couldn’t decide if he was angry with Sam or himself. He had been pissed at Sam and Lucy for years. They had told the lie. They had never spread the rumour of Tim’s involvement and in fact had vocally defended him more than once. But they had stuck to the ‘official’ story which still destroyed Tim’s credibility in the eyes of most everyone in the town. The question had hung over his head for years because Sam and Lucy wouldn’t be honest. Tim had been outcast socially, left with no allies and a father he was half sure wanted to murder him.

But at the same time, as Tim had reminded himself more than once; they had been kids. They had been 12, 13 and 14 years old and their friend had died, suddenly and unexpectedly. What else could kids do in that situation, except what they were told by the adults they had grown to trust.

He turned off before the track that ran towards his house, following the road down and around the edge of the forest. There were no birds he could see or hear but the crickets sang a constant chorus.

He could see heat distortions on the road ahead and began to regret wearing jeans, began to wonder how long the storm would take to get here.

Sam and Lucy Logan had lived in an old farm house a thirty minute walk from Tim’s home for his entire life in Foggy Lake but he had been there no more than three times in all that time. Around him the trees swayed slightly in those faint breezes that kept stirring through. He was god damned hot, and he had left without food or water and that was stupid but he was determined now. He found the smaller, private track that lead to the Logan property and began to hike up the slowly climbing hill.

He walked a lot and often and the walk was brisk. Amongst the trees the air was dense and thick, the foliage cutting off that all important breeze that had been taking the edge off the heat. Tim was sweating like he had been on his previous days jog and the lack of having eaten any damn thing at all was, once again, catching up. He dug out the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, lit one and felt the faint relief the nicotine brought him.

“Hey there!” he heard Sam calling and looked up as he reached a dirt track that served as a drive way in front of the house. Sam was literally chopping wood wearing just basketball shorts and steel toe boots and Tim actually stopped dead, had to concentrate so his jaw didn’t just drop open. Sam was like an Abercrombie and Fitch model. Pushing forty, any weight or bulk he’d added since high school was honed muscle and it rippled beneath skin that had always had a faint golden tan to it. He had a little body hair, on his chest and trailing from his navel under his sorts and he had slim hips and broad shoulders, that comic book, Captain America build that made Tim weak.

Tim had suspected he was gay since he was 15. He had known for sure some months after joining the Army when what had seemed like his first actual friendship, ever, had turned into his first kiss with another man, his first hot and heavy petting session with another man, then finally his first _everything_ with another man.  There had been relationships, and a few had even been nice, something close to healthy. The rest had been unmitigated disasters. In between there were encounters, usually fleeting, sometimes just a few hours or less of booze fuelled, breathless fucking.

Tim closed his mouth, tried to glance away casually as Sam approached him, tried to act like there wasn’t a pleasurable ache low in his body. He tried harder to act like he wasn’t watching Sam’s body move as he walked over.

“You walk here?” Sam was asking, “It’s hot, you got a drink or something? A hat? Didn’t you spend years in the desert? You should know better,” Sam was grinning, his mood changed from the previous night, and drastically. He was relaxed, comfortable on his home turf.

“I needed to get out and walk around. Didn’t really plan it but…I should have gotten a drink. That was stupid,” Tim admitted. And he did regret it. His head felt a little thick, a little hazy and it ached behind his eyes. It was either a hangover or the beginnings of heat stroke.

“It was,” Sam agreed. “Come on, man, I got water in the fridge, nice and cold. I was trying to take my mind off’ve…today,” he shrugged, led the way back to his house.

Inside he had pretty decent AC and Tim relished the cold air, following Sam into his kitchen. The man didn’t make a move to put on a shirt and Tim admonished the part of himself that celebrated this little detail. That part ignored the admonishment, kept enjoying it.

Sam reached into his fridge and withdrew two bottles of water and tossed one to Tim. “Drink it.” He all but ordered.

Tim did, broke it open and drained half the bottle, realising how dry his mouth had been, how parched he felt. He lowered the bottle when something like brain freeze kicked in. Maybe he imagined it, but he felt better, maybe a little clearer headed. Maybe it was taking his eyes off Sam’s chest for a few seconds.

Sam was lingering near the fridge, staring inside. “Is it too early for beer?”

Tim glanced his watch, saw it was almost midday, past his personal deadline for ‘too early to drink. “Why not?”

Sam thought on it, reached back in and withdrew two chilled bottles. “Probably won’t do you much good if you got heat stroke, but what the hell. For Meredith, right?”

He walked around the central island counter to pass Tim his beer, leaning back against it. He was a good inch or two closer than was strictly polite but Tim didn’t move over. Sam stayed put and Tim figured it had to be intentional.

They started on their beers and Tim promised himself a serious detox once he left town. If he had eaten at all since they left Lexington, it was junk food, and most of his calorific intake was coming from drinking “How you think it’s going?” Sam asked and they both knew he meant the funeral.

“I imagine it’s sad. A lot of folks liked her,” Tim said quietly. He didn’t want to talk about the funeral, about Meredith, about the heavy and morose weight of the day. He could already feel it pushing down on him.

“You remember that ghost story you told,” Sam started but Tim shook his head.

“I don’t want to…”He waved his hand, shook his head, took a swig of his beer.

“Sorry,” Sam said. They stood in silence and it started to get uncomfortable. Tim pushed himself off the counter, crossed to a cabinet that someone had stocked with photos. He saw Sam and Lucy as kids, with their parents, without. He saw them getting older, saw them in caps and gowns in separate photos. Sam had moved up behind him, studied the same photos. His parents sent lots of photos from Florida. Lucy had gotten herself a husband and some kids and they grinned out of the photos, all gap teeth and freckles. Tim found he was searching for photos of Sam with any kind of a partner but there was nothing.

He was acutely aware of Sam standing behind him, so close by Tim could smell the faint musk of him, feel the heat radiating from him.

“Tim…you think about what to tell Bess?” Sam asked. He sounded unsure, maybe a little vulnerable.

Tim breathed, sighed. Some part of him had half hoped this conversation wouldn’t happen and he felt a faint jolt of frustration that Sam had brought it up. He turned around and Sam shifted back a half step. He was still closer than casual and Tim wasn’t sure what to make of it. Sam had a way of watching Tim when he spoke, eyes tracking his whole face, lingering here and there the way Tim’s eyes did Sam. Tim shook it off, ignored it as best he could.

 “I still don’t understand why I can’t tell her the truth. Nothin’ happened. Right?”

Sam frowned at him. “You know it didn’t.”

“So why is there a secret?” Tim asked outright. It was the thing he’d never understood, the part that had so bugged him and he looked right at Sam, holding his gaze.

The taller man shrugged and for a second seemed lost for words. Tim knew why. Their argument was entirely circular. Tim would always believe it was wrong to lie and Sam would always believe it was an acceptable fib. “You know why,” he said. “Because Sheriff West was real fond of the Dayes family and he thought Norm would get dragged through the mud if folks thought he was giving weed to kids. You remember West, right? The man seriously thought weed made you gay and that bein’ gay meant you would mess with kids. He could quote ‘Reefer Madness’ and ‘Boys Beware’ from memory.” He gave a sad, half laugh at the memory.

“How many times he screen them during an assembly?” Tim asked.

“Felt like once a month, at least,” Sam told him.

Tim didn’t laugh, not even a sad one. West had terrified him, absolutely and completely. Not just his seething hate but how angry he made Tim feel, how easy he would have found it to physically harm the man. He shook his head. “He die?” he asked. “West, I mean?”

“Couple years back,” Sam nodded.

“I’m glad. He was a piece of shit.” Tim said, quiet but emphatic. He saw Sam nodding and he looked up and he fixed the other man with a stony glare “Stop trying to take this away from Bess. Why can’t I tell her the truth? What’s the harm? It doesn’t change a damn thing.”

“ _That’s_ why. It doesn’t change anything. You haven’t been here, Tim, you haven’t seen what she’s been through, Tim,” Sam said. The tone was just a little accusatory and Tim glared at Sam.

“Not like I’ve been welcomed back, Sam,” he snapped as much as he could with a natural long drawl. “Or this town has a piss poor idea of what a welcoming committee should look like.”

Sam backed off. “I’m sorry,” he said and he seemed to mean it. “I just mean…she’s still drinking and she’s on pills but she’s been…stable, the last year or so. In so many words. Her callin’ you….it worries me. If I believed telling her the truth would do a damn bit of good I wouldn’t have a problem with it but telling her now just raises more questions for her, and the answers don’t do shit to make her life any less tragic.  

“Doesn’t sit right with me,” Tim looked down, spoke quietly. “Shouldn’t sit right with you.”

“It doesn’t,” Sam said. “It hasn’t for years. But it happened. I told a lie because a grown up told me to.  Bess doesn’t need to know it happened.”

Tim disagreed, vehemently but Sam’s logic held some water. Bess deserved to know, but if it might fracture some fragile peace she’d made for herself…maybe it wasn’t Tim’s place.

 Sam was watching him, waiting for a response. “Tim. I lied on a police report. Lucy lied,” he said quietly.

And what he meant was that if Tim told Bess the truth, if it got out he was still touting his ‘version’, then maybe someone would listen. Sam and Lucy had been kids, they wouldn’t go to jail, probably. But there could be an impact, backlash for a man who knowingly lied, became a Sheriff’s Deputy later on.

Tim couldn’t bring himself to speak but he shrugged, gave a small nod. Sam smiled at him, looked grateful.

Tim turned back to examine the photos again. He saw one of Sam, a little younger, shiny and neat as a pin in a very fancy suit. Lucy was beside him in her wedding dress, smiling big.

He heard Sam’s boots on the floor, heard the fridge open and close, bottles clink.

He glanced back, saw Sam offering a second beer and without much thought he took it. Sam was holding the bottle a little high on the neck and their fingers touched and Tim wanted to roll his eyes but instead he licked his lower lip, met Sam’s eyes briefly before he looked away again.

He didn’t quite need the beer. The long walk and the heat and the hangover had sent even this single beer straight to his head. But he took the second one and he knew he would finish it.

He turned back to the pictures, which crept off the cabinet and out of frames, bled onto the walls, stuck with tacks or tape. Tim followed them, felt Sam’s eyes on them. He was increasingly confident he wasn’t imagining the signals Sam was sending him but he was nervous. He slid a hand into his pocket and curled his fingers around the fold out combat knife he carried. He wouldn’t even begin delve into why that made him feel calmer but it did. He felt odd, detached and he knew distantly he needed to drink about half his body weight in water and soon, or suffer.

“You marry?” Tim heard Sam ask behind him and he shook his head.

“Never saw the point,” he shrugged, turning back around and leant on the wall beside him.  “You?”

“Not yet,” Sam shrugged. “I enjoy my freedom, for the minute. Lets me get away with a lot.”

Tim sipped his beer again, letting his gaze drift down to Sam’s chest once again, even lower. He looked up and Sam was watching him.

Tim didn’t move, didn’t change his tone. “You datin’ at all?” Tim asked.

“Not at present,” Sam said quietly. “Not in a while.”

Tim nodded. He drained his beer, eyes on Sam who did the same. The bigger man stepped forwards, closing the space between them quickly on long legs, setting down his beer as he walked. He reached Tim and the height difference, his six four to Tim’s just barely five nine was so much that Tim had to arch his head back to maintain that eye contact. Sam took Tim’s bottle from his hand and set it down.  

There was a moment when time stretched just for a second, when the tension between them flexed so hard it was almost painful. Sam leant in and his hand came up. Part of Tim flinched in an unpleasant way and for a spirit of a blink he wanted to strike out but Sam’s hand grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him in close and he leant in and kissed Tim hard on the mouth. Tim was kissing back before he spared it a thought.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning, this scene handles some sexual content, some questionable consent issues, PTSD, panic attacks and depictions of child abuse.

There was some fumbling, guided stumbling from the kitchen to a den in the back of the house. Sam had one hand in the base of Tim’s back, the other gripping held out to keep them from running into a wall or a falling over.

They wound up on a couch, like horny teens, Sam above Tim while Tim lay back on the cusions.

Sam’s tongue flicked out and Tim’s met it and Sam’s other hand ran down Tim’s side. He touched Tim’s gun and he drew back, not afraid since he carried his own, but distracted. Tim gasped as the kiss broke off, reached for his belt and made himself concentrate so he could unbuckle it quickly, yank it out of the belt loops. He caught his gun with his free hand and set it down on a coffee table. It took mere seconds and as soon as he was done Sam moved back in and his lips were at Tim’s mouth, his hands on his body.

Every inch of skin Sam touched tingled, burned. Sam kneaded his fingers into Tim’s skin and muscle and he was relishing in his strength over the smaller man.

Tim ached. He was hard enough it was painful and it was impossible to ignore. Sam’s hand was at Tim’s waist, his thumb sliding under the waistline of his jeans and Tim couldn’t help the faint moan he let out. He felt Sam’s lips quirk into a smile and slowly, he slid his hand across the front of Tim’s jeans, rubbed at the bulge as he gently bit at Tim’s lower lip.

Sam moved his hand, flexed his fingers and Tim’s jean button was undone, his fly coming down. Something made him pause and he drew back, away from Sam’s soft lips and firm kisses. “Maybe we should stop,” he gasped.

Sam’s brought one hand up and curled it into Tim’s hair. He made a fist, gently tugging as he slid his other hand into Tim’s jeans, under his boxers.

He tugged harder on Tim’s hair, pulling his head back a little so Tim met his eyes, enough to hurt at the roots,  but his hand started moving, “You wanna stop?” he asked, his voice low and thickened by lust.

Tim couldn’t concentrate properly, couldn’t focus and Sam was kissing his neck, his hand working slow and steady. Sam leant in, his body radiating heat and his breath hot on Tim’s neck. Sam pulled back, withdrew his hands. He pulled Tim’s jacket over his shoulders and Tim let him, watching Sam, watching the hunger and need on his face, lighting his eyes. The jacket came off, was gone.

Sam grabbed Tim’s shirt, yanked over his head and tossed it aside, leaning back in to kiss him, their chests both bare now, brushing together, their skin warm, reflecting each others heat. Sam cradled Tim’s jaw in his hands, the gesture almost affectionate, gentle, and he kissed along the jaw, down the neck, the collarbone, working his way down Tim’s torso.

Tim leant back, feeling his body respond to Sam’s touches, trying to get his head in order and get his bearings while it happened. He had drunk too much in the few days and certainly too much too early on this day when he was too hot, and he was lonely and in his home town which threw him off balance. He didn’t always make good decisions in such a state. He wasn’t totally clear what this counted as.

Sam was trailing his tongue over Tim’s fresh bruises, moving gently to keep the slightly painful tingle on the right side of enjoyable while his hand around Tim’s cock moved smoothly, in time with his tongue. Sam moved across Tim’s body, always kissing, gently licking and lapping and his mouth found the knot of scar tissue under Tim’s ribs and lingered there. Once as a kid Tim had been absolutely terrified when a spider dropped on his face. Every nerve in his body had spasmed in the most uncomfortable way possible. When Sam licked at the scar on Tim’s chest it was like that nerve jangle translated into a physical pain. Tim flinched, hard, and it was impossible for Sam to ignore but he did, flicked his tongue out again, sending a second jolt of that strange whole body flinch through all of him.

“Sam,” Tim said, trying to move his body away, raised his hands to guide the man away.

Sam pushed Tim’s hands away, gently holding Tim’s wrists and he licked the scar in a long way that would have been sexy had it been any other part of Tim’s body.

“Fuck,” Tim snapped, his whole body jerking involuntarily with that strange nerve jangle.

“Take it easy,” Sam purred, lost on what he was doing, brushing his teeth across the scar.

Tim raised a hand, pushed Sam away a little. “That doesn’t feel good.”

“Sure it does,” Sam smiled, tried to lean back in but Tim pushed again, a little harder this time to make his message clearer, his hands making a sound as they impacted Sam’s chest.

“It absolutely fuckin’ doesn’t,” Tim said firmly and real anger bled into his voice, his eyes. His mood soured quickly and he moved under Sam, untangled his legs and managed to stand. For a second he sat, Sam silent and waiting.

Tim was up on his feet, adjusting his jeans, closing them up as his arousal drained away entirely. He grabbed his belt and his gun and over Sam’s confused protests he walked out of the den, up the hall and out of the house.

Outside, the heat hadn’t let up any and maybe it was even warmer and thicker. Tim felt hot and dizzy and a little sick. He walked away from the house quickly, feeling something rise in his chest, something unpleasant that made his shoulders lock up.

 It wasn’t merely the strange jolt Sam had induced, which Tim recognised was a purely physical response, same way the burn on his arm had been felt like a raw nerve the first six months after he got it. Tim was off balance as it was. The nerve jangle of the scar had taken his mind to strange places. Bad places.

Tim had thought of the mountain. He had told Raylan he didn’t remember climbing down the mountain, but he absolutely remembered being shot and turning to eliminate the kid who had just unloaded a clip into and at Tim. He remembered seeing the boy clad in dark clothes fall backwards in a spray of dark liquid, blood concealed by the night time.

He had astoundingly clear memories of being in absolute mortal terror while he clawed his way over rocks not yet cooled from the days sun, leaving behind the blood spilling out of him, blood he could taste in his mouth as he coughed it up from a lung he later learned was seconds from collapse before medics reached him.

Tim was walking, passing quickly through the shady tunnel of trees, reaching the road and stepping back into the sticky heat and unrelenting hot sun.

He knew vaguely that he was breathing too fast, walking too fast in the heat, not paying enough attention to the road or where he was going, at risk of hyperventilating but all of that was swept aside as his mind raced. He didn’t want to call the nagging, clawing feeling on the edges of these memories ‘fear’, but he was having a hard time thinking of any other way to describe it.

Sometimes on dark nights when he was trying to fall asleep he could hear the kid who shot him dying. It had been wet and brief and Tim learned later his bullet had taken the boy in the throat. He had managed to say something in Pashto but Tim had only recognised the word ‘understand’.

Tim was kicking up dust as he walked. His stomach churned around the beers and felt acidic and heavy. He looked around, suddenly acutely aware he was alone and out in the open. A voice in his head urged him to take cover but he fought to ignore it, to fend off the idea he was in danger.

 His wandering mind had taken a trip and he was thinking of his father, Henry. The man had possessed a strange kind of faith which by day he used to justify his violence against his son. By night, he drank and he blamed that instead.

Tim’s head swam. He remembered being very small and crying for his mother and being slapped in the face. He had been seven and a teacher having called home because Tim had gotten in a playground scuffle. Henry had whipped him with a switch, left Tim with red welts for days. He remembered his father being heavy into his drink and slurring at Tim about Tim’s mother who was in Henry’s eyes, a slut, a bitch, a traitor, a junkie. The list was endless. Tim had no way to counter, no knowledge of the woman to fight back with.

Tim stopped in his tracks and rubbed at his face, his eyes which felt hot and moist. There was a part of him, maybe the part that made him a sniper that reminded him calmly and rationally he was having a panic attack, maybe a full blown PTSD episode. He was hyperventilating, his heart thudding in his chest and his clothes were becoming soaked through with sweat.

He bent forwards, put his hands on his knees, tried to ignore the thought he was very much alone on a long dusty road and unless Sam saw fit to follow him there was very little chance of anyone happening along.

He had to get a handle on it himself. He had to.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I can only apologise for the gap in posting. Please enjoy!

Raylan didn’t specifically go looking for Tim, not at first. He would be the first to admit he overslept, tried to sleep off the worst of the booze and long drive of the day before. When he crawled from bed he just about registered Tim wasn’t around before he stumbled into the bathroom, the shower.

He took his time in the bathroom but when he emerged Tim still hadn’t come back and calls to his phone were ignored or missed.

Raylan went out and told himself he was looking for somewhere to eat, but he passed the diner three or four times while he made loops around and through the roads, trying to spot the only familiar face in town. In time, the heat, the booze and a lack of sustenance started to catch up to him and he had to give in, find food, or at least mainline soda and coffee for a while.

He ate and drank fast, found it hard to enjoy much of it with a concern he tried to pretend he wasn’t feeling rolling around in his guts. By the time he’d checked back at the motel twice he was really, really concerned. He was walking the town again, debating checking the medical centre, the deputies station when he passed by the plaza park they had passed the night before.

Sitting on a bench, in the shade and out of the way, Tim Gutterson was being invisible, at least to anyone who might pass and notice the young mans distress. He was mostly still except for his cigarette, his arm rising and falling to his mouth. He sat in such shade that if Raylan hadn’t been specifically looking for someone, he might have glanced over the figure on the bench entirely.

Tim was exhaling smoke, tapping off the ash into a soda can that sat between his boots. As Raylan approached and sat down, taking note of Tim’s pale and slightly grey skin, the redness around his eyes, the too bright shine to them, Tim tapped out one cigarette, headed straight into the next. Raylan sat beside him and they both watched as Tim’s hands tremored a little while he lit his next cigarette.

Raylan sat silent for a while. Officially, he didn’t know Tim had PTSD and Tim’s appearance and that his demeanour could be down to some sort of anxiety attack or episode of the condition. He had walked in on a phone call he shouldn’t have, heard things not meant for him about Tim and Tim’s mental state. He half hated that he knew. It mean that at least some of the time he had to be worried.

“You forget to stay hydrated?” Raylan asked.

“Essentially,” Tim told him, voice a little raw for Raylan’s comfort.

“Essentially? Somethin’ else happen?” Raylan looked at him.

Tim gave a small shrug, seemed spent,

“What was the other part?” Raylan asked.

Tim said nothing but somehow managed to communicate an answer. The other had been whatever left him looking like he’d been dragged screaming down memory lane.

Raylan chewed his lip, trying to work out how to frame his question without letting on to Tim he was privy to very private information. “Is….this something happens often?” he asked.

“Art told me you know,” Tim said quietly, “You need to learn to knock.”

“I do,” Raylan agreed. “Do you want to talk about it?” he asked eventually.

Tim looked up, blinking in surprise and squinting in the bright light. “Not particularly.”

“You want to get out of town?” Raylan asked. “We leave now we can be home before midnight. I’ll even let you chose the radio station.” He joked.

Raylan hoped for a joke of some kind but Tim was considering his offer. “I still have to talk to Bess,” he reminded Raylan.

Raylan sighed. “Do you?” he asked.

Tim considered it again. “Yeah.”


	12. Chapter 12

The silence between them remained fairly amicable, Tim had to admit. If Raylan harboured any resentment at being ditched, at finding Tim in something of a state, he didn’t say a word. He sat quietly on the bench for a while longer before quietly pointing out that if Tim was really feeling the heat, they needed to get out of it. Tim realised Raylan was right, followed him back to the motel. On the way they stopped off for more sodas and ice, more cold water and both made a point to start hydrating as much as they could. After a while they started talking about the films their TV was showing and it became a nice distraction from anything else,

Since neither was inclined to head back out and both saw junk as a food group, they snacked all day on what was left of their journey and the previous days purchases, chips and candy and energy bars, finding some lukewarm but unopened sports drinks in the bottom of Tim’s duffle.

By the time Sam called up to the room Tim had begun to feel slightly better than he had when he last saw the man, at least physically. Not great, not ‘better, by any stretch. But he’d staved off the worst of any heat stroke, at least for now.

His nerves remained jangled. His heart rate had slowed down enough that he didn’t feel like he might die any more, but he remained on edge, unable to totally relax. He wasn’t surprised. A bad episode could leave him raw for hours days even. When he was a new young veteran in denial about his mental health, he had spent an unhealthy length of time concealing the fact he was often close to total panic, falling back on Ranger training to keep his cool. Eventually he had accessed help. Over time he developed a level of control, found his calm, occasionally taking pills to help with that.

He hadn’t planned to take a pill before they left the room. But when Sam called the motel phone, the unexpected shriek of the ringtone had made every nerve in his body jolt. He had concealed it behind a cough, excused himself to the bathroom and to the smaller bag he kept for toiletries.

He had swallowed a pill while Raylan spoke to Sam and assured him they were on their way down. Tim put his bottle back away, out of sight in his back and followed Raylan out of the door.


	13. Chapter 13

Sam could cook, and more to the point he did an excellent job of pretending there was no weirdness between he and Tim.

He had made burgers, mixed beef with some chopped onions, garlic and chillies. He had grilled more onions and bell peppers to serve on top with salad and burger sauce and he had made his own fries, too. The night was still warm so they ate out front where the breeze was beginning to pick up pace and the clouds gathering over the mountain were threatening to turn into real rain in the next few hours.

 Sam had a music player with portable speakers and he settled on easy listening to soundtrack their evening and made small talk about sports and movies. Tim, by now feeling his pill, and the booze, and that heat stroke he’d sort of kept at bay, remained silent, focussed on eating. Sam played the role of eager local to a T. He talked Raylan through the towns history as a logging camp turned settlement, turned small town. Raylan was pretty eager to hear it. He came from a coal mining town that had suffered a similar decline, but where Harlan was still wallowing in the losses the mine closure caused Sam could talk at length about the work being done at the lake sides, the new resorts being built, the increasing tourist business.

He was enthusiastic but not overly so, eager for the days to come when the town was more flush with money. “When we get more money….assholes like those guys from last night wont get released with a warnin’,” he said pointedly, eyeing Tim’s still raw and fresh injuries.

“That happened?” Raylan asked, sounding angry.

Sam nodded. “I pushed to press charges but…this town still favours its sons over anyone else.”

Tim looked up, perhaps a little wounded and wide eyed at that. “I was born here,” he pointed out.

Sam paused, realised what he’d said. “It’s…sons that didn’t get screwed over by hearsay and rumour,” he corrected himself, offering Tim a conciliatory shrug.

He gathered up their plates and went inside with them. When he came back he had more drinks and bowls of ice cream and pie. Raylan was content enough to dive in but Tim, who had seemed spacy and distracted all night pushed his food around the bowl for a few minutes before giving up the pretence entirely.

Sam told a story of a film that shot some scenes in the town when Sam was around eight, Tim a little younger. Tim didn’t remember much of it at all but Sam had met some Hollywood people and thought he might have met Jack Nicholson. They got into films and in the way it sometimes will, their drinking led them down a meandering path. Even Tim piped up when they started discussing ‘The Shining’ and once again, Raylan was not surprised to learn Tim’s involved knowledge of the film, and the wider work of the cast and crew, was expansive. But being Tim, he didn’t deliver it like some know it all nerd who had to remind you he was _that_ guy _._ Tim just liked this shit and he knew it well. Raylan was more and more convinced of his theory Tim had perfect recall.

The sun fully set but the porch light and some outdoor lanterns were enough to allow them to linger outdoors and enjoy the warm air but Tim was getting restless. “When are we going over to Bess?” he asked, cutting across something Sam had been saying about the Bond movies.

Sam turned to Tim, caught on the back foot, deep enough in his conversation o be briefly confused while his mind reset. “Pardon?”

“I want head back to Lexington sooner than later, so I want to see Bess sooner than later,” Tim said, sounding much calmer than he likely felt.

Sam looked apologetic. “I called over there this afternoon, after you left.” He said.

Raylan glanced at Tim, caught Tim looking at him trying to read his reaction. “She’s got a lot of work to do to tidy up…”

Tim looked at him, back at Raylan who was groaning inwardly, then back to Sam “We already talked about it,” Tim said.

Raylan figured this had also occurred during the visit Tim had apparently made earlier in the day. Raylan wondered if it was before or after the panic attack.

“She said she wanted to go to bed,” Sam shrugged. “You can go tomorrow?”

Tim took a breath, turned to Raylan, “Guess we should head out then. Catch a few hours sleep and leave around dawn.”

He was up and heading for the car, leaving Sam spluttering, looking to Raylan for an assist. “I can’t decide for her,” he shrugged.

Raylan said nothing. He wasn’t overly fond of Sam and he didn’t appreciate the stalling tactics and head games he was using to save his own ass. “He come over earlier?” Raylan asked, lingering in his seat.

Sam hesitated for a millisecond but nodded. “We sorta hashed it out over Bess,” he said.

“He come around to keepin’ you out of trouble?” Raylan said.

Sam frowned at him. “I don’t know if you get a say in this,” he said, trying to sound mild, despite visible frustration, his hand tightening around a napkin.

“You’re asking the guy who had his reputation torn up before he hit puberty, to lie to protect yours. Anyone with a conscience gets a say,” Raylan said, letting a little of his own anger seep into his eyes, his tone.

Sam looked helpless. “Man, I was a kid, okay. I was told to lie, so I did. I was a _kid._ ”

Raylan felt his eyes narrow just a little. “Yeah, but,” he stood, stretched a little, moved to follow Tim towards the SUV. “So was he.”


	14. Chapter 14

Raylan drove, Tim sitting in the passenger seat in a sullen silence. When they reached the end of Sam’s long drive way, Tim took a breath, sounding frustrated.

Raylan glanced at him. “You know the way to her house?” he asked.

Tim nodded, smiled and started giving directions.

The drive was simple enough, the road carving a long U from Sam’s place and through the trees, winding up at a pretty, freshly painted home that sat higher up the mountain, but could have been directly above Sam’s place, so Raylan figured.

They approached slowly and Tim leant forwards in his seat to check it out as they drove up. One car was visible, an older pick up parked comfortably out front, but there were signs of a lot of other cars, a lot of people having been there.

Someone had set the flower arrangements left for Meredith on Bess’s porch and Tim sat in the darkness for a moment, staring at the bright petals. A school photo in a dark frame sat outside the front door and for the first time Raylan got a look at the girl. She had been pretty, would have been beautiful when she grew up, if she’d been given the chance.

The door to Bess’s home opened and a woman who gave a good idea of what Meredith would have looked like stood in the porch light and smoked. She was tall and skinny in a way just this side of healthy looking and she must have changed into soft looking sweatpants and a t-shirt after the funeral. Casually and like it wasn’t a big deal, a double barrel shotgun rested in the crook of her arm.

Tim got out of the SUV slowly, arms held up. “It’s Tim Gutterson, Ma’am,” he called over. “You called me about Meredith, you remember?”

There was a long, stretching silence during which Raylan’s heartrate just about tripled. Tim had been knowingly bold, stepped out from behind their car door. If the woman chose to shoot, he would have very little time to find cover. Raylan was glad of his side arm on his hip but aware he didn’t really want to shoot the woman, who had just buried her daughter that was missing for 20 years.

Bess was smoking slowly but as she spoke smoke plumed from her nostrils and mouth. “You and your friend best come in,” she called back, heading back into her house.

“Bess,” Tim lingered near the car as the woman turned back to him. “I’d feel a lot better about it if you didn’t have the gun.”

She laughed, set the gun down inside of the door and with a glance at Raylan, Tim followed her inside. Raylan muttered a curse to himself and got out of the SUV.

Inside Bess Rodham’s house were all the signs the woman had been having company, dishes stacked in the kitchen and picnic plates dotted around the rest of the home and on various surfaces.

 “You gonna help with the dishes?” Bess was asking Tim as she led them into the kitchen and with a half smile he rolled up his sleeves and crossed to the sink. People had brought food for the funeral, in Tupperware or on their nicer ceramic and china. Raylan scraped plates into the bin and set them beside the sink while Tim dealt with washing them and setting them on the draining board.

 Bess was moving around her house collecting the paper plates and cups people had left on tables and surfaces and when the dishes were done Tim and Raylan pitched in to help her.  Raylan watched her as they worked, knew Tim was too. She was a little drunk, had a slight wobble on her feet but no worse than either of them might be. Sam had painted a picture of someone far less capable.

It wasn’t long before the house was cleared of litter, all the dishes were dried or drying and Bess invited them to sit at the kitchen table. Bess poured out bourbons but Raylan left his sitting for a while, still feeling the drinks from dinner. Tim stared at the table top and repeated the ‘official’ version of events in a voice with just enough feeling you couldn’t fairly call it a monotone.

When he was done Bess watched him for a long time. She lit up a cigarette and offered them around the table. Raylan declined but Tim took one and let her light it for him. In the harder light her beauty was marked with the lines and signs of her habits and her life. The booze had dried her skin the smoking left hard lines in her face. She was still striking but life had left its marks on her.

“What happened to your face?” she asked of Tim as Raylan finally sipped his drink, her eyes roving over the bruises and cuts that had mostly grown worse as the day wore on.

“Foggy Lake Welcome Committee,” Tim told her.

Bess nodded. “Such charmers,” she said. “Everyone still think you hurt my girl?”

Tim looked up at her, “Guess they do.”

Bess was quiet, smoking for a while and working on her drink. Tim glanced at Raylan, but neither of them knew what to say. “You know I was friends with your mom?” Bess asked him. “I was older but we were kinda close. You don’t look much like her. You did, ‘til you was about eight or nine then Henry’s genes took over. Good thing he was so easy to look at.”

Tim tapped the ash of his cigarette into an ashtray on the table. “I don’t know a lot about her,” he said quietly, speaking of his mother.

“She wasn’t much older than Meredith when your daddy knocked her up,” Bess told him. “How old were you when she left?”

“Three,” Tim told her.

“You hear from her at all?” Bess asked.

Tim glanced at Raylan for a fleeting second and Raylan sensed his increasing discomfort at Raylan’s courtside seats into Tim’s background. “Never,” Tim shook his head. “I never gave much credence to the rumour he killed her.” Raylan glanced up at that. Another rumour, it seemed.

“Nor me. Your mama would never have let him. She probably ended up in some commune in California. She was raised Christian and kinda hippy at the same time. Smokin’ weed to get closer to God, sort of thing. She always said she’d go to California one day.”

“You ever heard from her?” Tim asked her. He sipped his bourbon, drew on his cigarette.

“You think I’d have kept it from you, if I had?” Bess frowned at him but she was curious more than mad. “You reckon people are so cruel?”

“You remember Henry?” Tim asked her in the same dry, cynical and just slightly patronising voice he reserved for people he felt were asking him stupid questions.

Bess made a noise, a cynical snort of agreement. “Fair enough. No, I never heard from your mother. I would have told you if I had.”

Tim seemed to accept this, and another drink as Bess refreshed them all. “Remind me what you said happened?” she squinted at Tim and he shrugged.

“I told the truth. Norman Dayes and and Cubby Quest came by the bonfire, they had some more drinks and some weed to smoke. They left hours before we all went to sleep,” Tim said. “That’s what I wasn’t allowed to tell you. That’s all it was.”

Bess was nodding, seemed more drunk than she had, more off inside her own head. “You think one of them was the boyfriend?”

“What boyfriend?” Raylan asked her, speaking for the first time. He couldn’t tell if he’d missed something but Tim was looking up in as much surprise.

“Boyfriend?” Tim was saying at almost the exact same time.

Bess missed their surprise though, rising from her seat to reach a nearby drawer. “I always said to myself right after she died, I’d never read her diaries. She was at that age when privacy had become so important and she’d filled so many books already. She’d stopped tellin’ me things, you know? Not everything but…boys. Love.” Bess lifted marbled notebooks which had been covered in stickers and doodles, warnings about privacy and the consequences if it was breached out of drawers in an old but much used cabinet.

“But when it got to the time she might have wanted to marry, when she would have been in her twenties it just got me wonderin’. Did she ever like anyone? Had she kissed yet, you know?” Bess was talking half to herself as she returned to the table with the diaries and sat, setting them down and opening one of the diaries and leafing through the pages which had yellowed and softened with her handling. There were little torn strips of paper serving as page markers, handwriting on each one seemingly explaining what each marker was for.

“And she had a boyfriend?” Tim asked.

Bess nodded, tapping a page and turning the diary to Tim. He read, leaning in and finding a date at the top of the page, cushioned between doodles of lightning and a heart. He skimmed more pages, more entries. “She says he’s older,” Tim looked up at Raylan pointedly but turned back to Bess. “You show this to anyone?”

“Only Sam and Lucy when they came to visit. Lucy said she never saw anyone around. She said she thought Meredith was prone to exaggerating. I can’t say I disagree. She could tell a story, but I don’t think she’d lie in her diary,” Bess shrugged. She downed much of her drink in one sip, poured another, missed a glance the two men shared.

“Sam saw it,” Tim stated rather than asked.

“He did. Said the same as his sister,” she looked up at Tim. “But why would she lie in her own diary? Who’s it for?”

Tim had gone very still, saying nothing, reading more diary entries. “Ma’am, we should leave you to your grievin’” he said, rising slowly but making enough noise for Tim to look up, set down the diary and stand too. He drained his drink quickly and when he saw Raylan’s was untouched he finished that too.

“Thank you for your hospitality, Bess. I’m sorry about Meredith. I wanted to say that a long time. I am sorry,” Tim told Bess.

Bess looked up at him. “I know you are. Don’t be so much of a stranger next time. Come calling once in a while.  I’m more clear headed in the day time,” she said, the last weighed with a note of something very sad and self aware.

Tim had run out of things to say and headed outside, Raylan on his heels, offering a rushed goodbye to Bess Rodham. Tim was moving fast, angry and getting angrier and it showed in the taut set to his shoulders.

“Tim,” Raylan called, “we can leave now, right? We can go home?”

Tim shook his head, “Not yet.”

Raylan sighed, but as he raised his hand to unlock the SUV Tim was striding straight past it. “Hey!”

“I’m goin’ to Sam’s,” Tim snapped back at him, heading for the woods.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim makes it back to Sam's.   
> Things happen.   
> Check for notes.   
> Possible trigger warnings for sexual assault.

Tim probably had heat stroke, he was pissed off, drinking heavily and he’d taken a sedative that could have laid someone with a gentler constitution on their ass. Going to Sam’s was an absolutely terrible idea but his feet were carrying him there. Though he’d rarely walked the route through the woods to actually travel from Meredith’s so Sam’s home, Tim had walked nearly every acre of forest and wood in Foggy Lake and he knew Sam’s farm was directly below the Rodham land.

The idea he could get lost never crossed his mind. Tim got lost in the woods about as often as he missed a shot. It took fifteen minutes to hike down to Sam’s house and he was even angrier when he got there than when he had started out. He emerged behind Sam’s house but walked around to the front and knocked hard on the front door. Lights were still on inside and it didn’t take long for Sam to open the door, looking visibly relieved and setting down his handgun when he spotted Tim.

He started to speak but Tim pushed past him into the house, making a point to shoulder Sam out of the way. “Bess told you Meredith had a boyfriend,” he said, his voice hard, “Showed you those diaries.”

Sam was silent for a long time but eventually he broke, looked guilty, caught in his lie. “She did,” he said quietly.

 “Is that why I can’t speak to anybody?” Tim turned back to face him and snapped. “They were courtin’?” he stepped closer. Tim wasn’t prone to physical outbursts. He didn’t make a point to get in peoples personal space, get in their face, usually letting them come to him, but with Sam he stepped in, got close, was ready to hit him.

Sam took a breath but whatever he was planning to say died on his lips. “It was Norman. She said one day he’d driven her home when she got out of school late. He made it a habit of a week or so and then they started meetin’ up beyond that. Only for a few months before her birthday.”

Tim blinked, his mind taking a moment to process what Sam had just said and he saw Sam realise what had come out of his mouth. “She’d told you then? You knew back _then_?” he asked quietly, something in his gut and his chest sinking in a disappointment that surprised him. It was more than a lie. It was a god damned cover up.

Sam blinked, let out a sigh. “Yeah. Yes. We knew…I thought it was dumb, Lucy thought it was some kind of romantic. It was meant to be sort of a secret. That’s why we never said anything on that day.”

“Lucy,” Tim repeated, his voice dull as it hit him again just how thrown to the wolves he had been.

Sam nodded. “And he was makin’ her go to bed?” Tim asked, quietly, falling on an old fashioned expression one of his CO’s had been fond of.

Sam shook his head, “They had fooled around a little, nothing more. She said he was never pushy about it. She figured he could sleep with girls his own age when he wanted so they could take it slow…to her, that made a sad kind of sense, I guess.”

Tim felt like he was going a little crazy, backed up from Sam and tried to think. His head swam with the anger frustration and the sheer emotional exhaustion of being here, going through the history and all the new information. He was raging and part of him wanted to smack Sam in the face and not stop but the rest of him was just trying to stay focussed and upright.

Sam had, he realised, shepherded him back towards the kitchen. Sam was pouring drinks Tim knew he didn’t need but he was angry, the kind of angry that could turn into something worse so he took the offered glass and he drank.

“You knew she was goin’ with a guy that was eighteen. Foolin’ around some? And there’s written proof in her diaries. Years later, as a _Deputy_ ,” he spat the word pointedly, “you never thought you should chase that up?”

“ _Why?”_ Sam asked, frustrated, at his wits end.

Tim glared at him. “Because it’s your job.”

“She drowned! What would it change that they were there after all?” Sam demanded, “Tell me one good thing that can come of people knowing some high schoolers hung out that night?”

“The whole damn town thinks I killed her, Sam,” he snapped, his voice filling the empty room, the empty house beyond and leaving the kind of silence you need to let sit a while.

Sam turned away from him, shaking his head and tutting as if he was angry at Tim for not understanding something fundamental, but there was a glimmer of shame there. He drained his own drink and refilled both their glasses and Tim snatched his and drained it again. He had done that with four bourbons now. Or five. Or more. He shouldn’t have. He felt loose, moreso than he liked to be but when the drinks were poured he couldn’t turn off that instinct to reach out for the glass. He needed to leave town before his liver packed in altogether.

Sam moved slightly closer, hands held out below his waist line, conciliatory, calming. “I can only keep apologising for what I did. That’s all I can do; I am sorry, Tim. I lied to you, and the town, and to Bess. I’m sorry.”

“Sorry would be takin’ it back and putting things right,” Tim said, sounding as incredibly tired as he suddenly felt.

Sam held up his hands, let them fall uselessly back to his sides, but he moved closer again. “You deserve better,” he said. “You’re a Veteran . This town should be rolling out the red carpet and the parades for you,” he said, gentle and soothing, or trying to be.

Tim glowered at him but Sam shrugged as if to commit to his statement, edged closer.

Tim took a half step back, didn’t want to give up the space he had, but as he moved his head swam. He looked around for a chair, found one and sat heavily in it. He was feeling his drunk now, though his anger still burned hot and on some rapidly fading level he still spoiled for the fight.  

Sam moved closer again but while Tim wanted to move he wasn’t giving up his chair.

Sam stepped closer again, then a second time. He poured more drinks, picked up Tim’s glass and his own to carry over. “I freaked you out, earlier,” he said gently, handing Tim the bourbon Tim knew he didn’t need, sipped anyway.

“You fuckin’ did,” Tim said firmly.

“I thought….I misunderstood,” Sam said, sounding truly apologetic.

“Not sure how you could misunderstand my clear instructions to stop,” Tim snapped, wasn’t yet ready for an apology, for kindness.

Sam nodded. “I was….a little carried with the moment but I should have listened better,” he was standing, Tim realised, much closer than he had been. He had passed that barrier from casual to intimate somewhere along the way. Tim felt a hand on his shoulder, looked up to see Sam leaning in.

He kissed and Tim was surprised into kissing back, tasted beer and bourbon and maybe popcorn or something like it. He could hear a movie from the other room, or the TV at any rate but it was background noise to Sam’s lips pressing into his, his tongue edging against Tim’s.

Tim’s head swam and he found it almost funny, as if Sam kissed so well it had caused the sensation but he knew it was the drinking. Sam drew back but the head swimming feeling didn’t pass. It intensified and Tim didn’t feel so great all of a sudden.

Sam sensed or saw something in his face and grabbed Tim’s arm, pulled him over to the sink.

 Tim folded over the basin and puked up almost entirely liquid, the booze coming back up on him, his body making it clear he had reached his limit. He heard Sam run the tap to wash everything down the drain. Tim closed his eyes, let it happen, figuring if he was already this drunk it was better that he was going to puke out any more he had imbibed.

He felt something cold and damp, a washcloth on the back of his neck, another on his wrist and whether the relief they brought was psychological or not, it felt better, took some of the heat out of his skull, calmed the swimming feeling behind his eyes. Sam gave him a minute but then they moved, so fast Tim’s drunk addled mind was struggling to keep up. Sam had an arm around his back, supporting Tim with a hand curled around his side and hooking his belt. “You manage stairs?” Sam asked and Tim nodded, getting his feet under him.

Sam was strong and supported Tim without too much obvious struggle. That part of Tim vaguely amused by it all was cracking up at the idea of Sam heroically hauling Tim around his house. At the top of the stairs Sam’s house was carpeted and Tim was relieved he had mostly emptied his stomach so he didn’t ruin the tread by puking again but Sam was already moving swiftly into a bathroom. Tim was sat atop the closed toilet seat, beside a sink, and handed cold water in a glass.

“You got mouthwash?” he found he was asking and a half cap was of minty, purple syrup was handed to him. Tim swilled and spat into the sink then rinsed the hot cold minty feeling from his mouth with more water, then spit that too.

He was teetering on the wrong kind of drunk. He laughed at himself for even thinking that he was ‘teetering’ when he had just thrown up nothing but half-digested bourbon, noticed Sam frowning but ignored it and rested his head against the cold porcelain of the sink. He closed his eyes for a moment, aware Sam was coming and going from the bathroom to somewhere else in the house. Tim’s thirst was still just outweighing the weight on his eyelids and he pushed himself upright, took two long drams of water and forced himself to stand up and refill the glass.

Sam came back, eyed Tim and hooked his arm around his waist again, lifting Tim’s arm over his shoulders and walked him back into the hallway, “You trying to win a medal or something?” Tim asked.

“You ever win any?” Sam was asking and it was an actual question.

“Some,” Tim nodded, regretted it when his head felt a little strange but he didn’t feel the need to be sick right away. “You’re too tall for this,” he noted, up on his tiptoes a little to keep up with his taller companion.

Tim was being dumped onto a bed, didn’t have a clear memory of getting there from the hallway.

He fell and lay on his back atop the soft duvet but the position didn’t help the head swimming dizziness. With a faint groan he sat up, moving as slowly as he could muster when his motor control was so loose. He had entirely missed Sam leaving the room. He sat up as the man returned carrying Tim’s water.

Tim looked around the room, “We in your bedroom?” he asked.

“Easiest way for me to keep an eye on you,” Sam told him. “Take off your muddy ass shoes. Normally I don’t even let folks upstairs in shoes.”

Tim found the simple order easier to understand than most of the last half hour or so. He leant over, reached for the laces of his boots.

“Are they actual military boots?” Sam asked. “Like, combat ones?”

Tim was struggling with the knot, unable to see it clearly in the low lit room. “I haven’t worn real shoes since I enlisted,” he said. “Nothing lives up.”

“I’m sure,” Sam said. “You wear these boots over there, these exact ones?”

 Tim was struggling with the laces so Sam crouched, fumbled at them until he loosened the knots and Tim could toe the boots off and kick them aside.

“I did….I had another pair. Lost them,” Tim recalled.

“How?” Sam asked, rising to his feet. He was helping Tim out of the baggy sleeved shirt he wore over his t-shirt.

“Someone took ‘em,” Tim said, feeling the coo air of a discreet AC unit pucker the bare skin of his arms. He reached for his belt, removed his gun easily despite his drunk.

“And how did he end up taking them?” Sam was asking, reaching over and tugging Tim’s t-shirt up, tapping Tim’s arms so he lifted them and the t-shirt could be pulled over his head

_Kneeling for hours now in the hot sands that felt like it burned even through the combats, hands bound behind so his shoulders ached but the sun on the back of Tim’s neck was the worst, beating down like a slow steady hand that meant only harm and he understood enough Pashto to know an armed man had just demanded his boots_

His mind had wandered but he was being kissed and Sam’s hands were on his body, one hand in Tim’s hair, the other running down his side. Tim had missed the beginning, apparently.

Tim felt Sam’s lips brush his, tried to push thoughts of the desert from his mind, concentrate on Sam’s hand tugging a little at his hair. Sam’s touch made his skin tingle but his eyes remained heavy, weighed down and it was an effort to open them and keep them that way. He kissed Sam harder and Sam responded in kind. His hand in Tim’s hair pulled and the pain helped. Sam was eager, rushing and his hands moved to Tim’s belt and pulled at the buckle. He pushed Tim back onto the bed, climbing up on the bed with him, straddling his waist and leaning in to kiss him.

Tims head fell back _kneeling in the sand so hot it burned even the air, the breeze hot and arid, his tongue like chalk, eyes feeling like sandpaper_

Sam’s hands reached out, found Tim’s arms and slid them above Tim’s head, held in place. Tim was dipping in and out. When he could focus his skin was electric and his body rose to meet Sam’s roaming hands and mouth. But if he closed his eyes for too long the swimming feeling would come back and with it a crashing tiredness, a need to sleep both chemical and mental

_a shoe in his back pushing him forwards, face first in the hot sand while some kid stole his boots, grit and dust filling his eyes and mouth._

Sam was speaking to him, whispered dirty talk as his hand moved inside Tim’s boxers once again, his hand curling around Tim’s dick and working him. Tim groaned, felt his head fall back against the soft duvet, felt the swimming dizziness mix with the sensations Sam was creating. Sam moved so he could pull his own shirt off, the brief pause allowing Tim the time to catch his breath. He pushed himself up on his elbows as Sam leant back in and their mouths met, Sam hurriedly pulling at the waistband of Tim’s jeans but it shook something back into Tim’s mind.

 “Sam,” Tim managed to say around kisses, as Sam moved across to his jaw, “I’m not all here.”

“You’re fine,” Sam whispered breathing heavy in Tim’s ears, “you’re fine.” Tim’s head swam again. Sam kissed his body, his torso, carefully avoiding the scar, but lingering over the bruises from the previous evening. The pain and pleasure mingled together as Sam’s hand found Tim’s dick again and began to stroke. He was kissing Tim again but Tim’s focus was slipping in and out. He was aware of Sam’s mouth at his neck, one hand on his cock. Sam’s other hand was exploring, sliding under Tim’s torso and lower down his back, brushing his ass, squeezing hard.

Tim’s focus slipped in a way he couldn’t get a handle on and _he was in the desert and it was hot it was so hot and the sun was beating down and his head throbbed and rolled and he looked up into the sun and the white heat forced his eyes closed and he was so tired and when his eyes closed it felt right and he let them stay closed and let sleep pull him down._


	16. Chapter 16

_Somewhere out in the fog, something is moving._

_Tim can see only thick and rolling mist and he can hear the water lapping at the lakeside but he cannot see beyond his outstretched hand._

_He can sense the hunger of the thing, the size and power of it and he is afraid because he is just a child._

_But Meredith is out there. He can hear her calling for him._


	17. Chapter 17

Tim woke aching and sweating and suddenly, eyes flicking open from deep sleep to fully awake in no time at all. He was not alone in the bed, could sense the bulk and heat, hear the faint breathing of the figure beside him. The night came back in fits and bursts, most of his memories of drinking, at least one of Sam kissing him, at least one of being sick though he wasn’t sure how related those things were.

He was at Sam’s house, in Sam’s bed and Sam slept beside him, nude or close to it. Tim wore his boxer shorts and little else but in the faint light seeping through half open curtains he could see his clothes and boots stacked over a chair nearby.

Tim’s body ached in a very specific way. He remembered more kissing, more _than_ kissing, remembered hands and lips. But everything else was hazy. His body was telling a story with aches and twinges of discomfort and the air in the room had the familiar funk of intercourse.

Tim tried to focus on the last thing he could remember. It was muddled, he knew that. He had been thinking of the desert. But he had been getting kissed.

He had come over because he was angry. He was angry because Sam had lied.

Sam had lied about Meredith having had an older boyfriend, one of the teens who stopped by the bonfire that night. It was part of why Sam lied when the Sheriff asked him to. But Sam had done something he appeared to make a habit of and he had changed the subject, _drastically_.

He moved silent and fast, gathering his clothes, slipping out of the room and pausing at the door to listen, make sure Sam wasn’t stirring. All he could hear was a faint ticking clock somewhere below. Barefoot, he crept to the bathroom and ran the taps in the sink on the lowest pressure he could so as to keep the pipes from alerting Sam that Tim was up. He washed up as best he could using a washcloth folded near the sink and the soap beside the taps. He tried to be thorough, fast and quiet and he was.

While he dressed he reminded himself what he’d learned the night before; Meredith had been seeing Norm Dayes when she died. Which likely meant nothing but it had been kept a secret for 20 years and Tim was _pissed_ and he wanted to hear Norm say it and see him react to being asked about it.

Tim wasn’t sure why. He had always trusted his own memory of that day and his memory of that day was Norm and Cubby leaving to head to some party the High Schoolers were having further up the lake and Meredith’s camping trip continued without them. They had drunk some more, finished the weed and with everyone a little high, drunk and tired they had retired to their tents. But that had been hours later.

Tim was dressed but carried the boots he remembered Sam commenting on the night before. That had been after Tim puked, but before Sam started making out with him. Tim shook his head, focused on Norman Dayes. He walked on the edge of the steps to get downstairs and slipped into the kitchen to get a drink before he left.

He found a glass, ran tap water and drank, thirstier than he had realised. He drained another glass, paused for a second and opened the fridge, spotted bottled water and Gatorades. He took one of each.

He spotted a slim laptop and seeing his phone battery was low, he opened it and as he reached for the power button it came to life all by its self. It was unlocked which Tim found oddly naïve even for someone he knew lived alone. But it didn’t matter to him much. He opened a web browser, went to google and searched for Norman Dayes and Foggy Lake.

He wasn’t surprised Norm was still in town, was surprised he owned and ran a bait shop further up the mountain, a few miles, a brisk hike for someone like Tim with his knowledge of the area.

It was early, just getting to six. He suspected Sam’s alarm would buzz soon. Realistically Tim should go back to the motel, pack and leave town. He had spoken to Bess. He wasn’t especially welcome in town so staying held little value or worth for him. If anything, lingering was dangerous.

Yes, he lingered. He couldn’t shake the need to tell Norm Dayes in person that he knew about the relationship.

He navigated to his email and logged in, sent a quick message he knew Raylan would get on his cell phone and explained he had been at Sam’s and would be back in a few hours and could be reached on his cell, but the power was low. He paused by a notepad and pen Sam kept near his home phone, meaning to leave a note but nothing came to mind. He didn’t want to leave a note for Sam. He wasn’t sure he wanted to speak to Sam again, strictly.

He shook his head, put on his boots and taking his stolen drinks he left the house.


	18. Chapter 18

Raylan stirred as his phone buzzed. Despite his drinking he had slept lightly, very uncomfortable with Tim having just walked off into the night without another word . He had been expecting some kind of contact eventually and when a chime sounded and his phone made an angry buzz he reached for it without looking.

He drew the phone into his nest of blankets and saw an email from Tim, explaining his whereabouts and a rough idea of when he’d be back. Raylan snorted to himself, dropped the phone on his face and fell back to sleep.


	19. Chapter 19

Tim was sweating despite the cool morning air, but he could feel the rain preparing to fall. Every now and then a breeze would stir through the trees and the temperature was staying low. Tim was glad of it. The road he walked was an old one and it looked like the last few years it hadn’t seen much use, but Tim knew it. It didn’t specifically lead to Norman Dayes bait shop, nothing in life was that convenient, but it would get him there.

 If there was a real road running back into town Tim might even hitch a ride. He liked the walk though, liked this part of the woods.  It led past a ruined mill, half concealed in a gorge. There were ancient train tracks running through the trees nearby and once they had carried the great logs and carved wood to towns and cities down the mountain. The mill was old, maybe as much as the burned down town hall, all wood and roughly hewn bricks, half a water well like there might have been running water once. The walls and structure that remained were coated in moss and thick ivy leaves that were probably most of what held it all together. One day it might collapse. As a kid, Tim had crawled around inside it, explored every inch of it. He’d probably come incredibly close to serious injury or death more time than he realised. As gorgeous and vaguely mythical as it looked, to his adult eyes it was fragile and dangerous. Still, maybe he would walk back this way after all, get closer and poke around a little.

Tim sipped his water and his Gatorade in equal amounts, ignored the pressing thought that most sports drinks were just sugar and colour and any improvement you felt was psychological. He knew a lot of stuff like that, spent a lot of time on the internet, reading Wikipedia pages for fun. He could sink six hours into a day of daisy chaining between wikis, youtube and TVTropes and call it time well spent.

He had a skill for it, something someone had called perfect recall. It wasn’t an eidetic memory, he still had to take time to read or watch something but once he did it could stick there for ever. He had noticed Raylan notice the ability on this trip, was wondering if he’d ask about it, waiting on the uninspired ‘Rainman’ or similarly oblivious comments.

Once in his Ranger days a very spooky Spook in a suit had approached him with a job offer for some organisation within the Government. Or alongside the Government. The guy had gone to lengths not to specify where, if anywhere his employers landed in any heierarchy.

 All he would say was that Tim’s particular set of skills, his memory, attention to and eye for detail and of course his abilities as  profoundly efficient killer, would suit a role in what he called ‘political restructuring’.

Tim had been pretty sure he was being offered a job as an assassin. He had said no. Only he and the Spook knew how long it took him to get there.

Tim was trying not to think about his night with Sam, hadn’t yet decided how to feel about it and so filing it away to examine further, later on. Right now, he wanted closure that just a few days ago he hadn’t given a fiddle about. If he had never come back to Foggy Lakes he’d have drowned any heart ache that gave him in bourbon.

Now he needed to know, confirm for himself that he had been right not to lie all those years ago. Part of him fancied the idea of telling other people. It wasn’t the scandal of the century, but he could rattle a few cages. His name would be cleared, in some sense. He didn’t go in much for self pitying. It wasn’t his style, felt like a waste of his time. He hadn’t made a habit of pitying himself for the shitty childhood he’d endured. Mostly he was angry about it.

But as he hauled himself up the mountain and finally hit a road, turning and heading up towards the bait shop, he thought of himself as a kid and he felt a real sadness. He had been the poorest kid in a poor town, absent a mother, trapped with a father everyone knew was boxing him around the house every damn night. He was horrendously lonely, though he hadn’t let himself feel that, ever, knew it but tried to ignore it.

He had no friends, no confidants, no one who would back him up, fight his corner. He was quiet, bookish, too smart for his own good. His trap like mind meant he knew more than he should about more than he should. He could read one issue of Guns and Ammo and tell you about every gun mentioned cover to cover. The few people who did talk to him were adults who got him to recite facts he’d learned. As a nine year old maybe it had been cute to hear him talk at length about the best kind of knife to use on a hunting trip, the best ammo for fighting with tanks, the best rifle for clay shooting. As a thirteen year old present when a kid died, it was less cute. It was scary. He was the natural choice to be that kind of scapegoat. Everyone had already decided he was a killer.

And he’d grown up to be one, an efficient and highly skilled one. How strange it would be if he had gone away and killed so many people, to be able to return and say ‘ _but not this one’._

But it just the fact he’d been scapegoated. Some creepy older guy had been fooling around with a kid and that made Tim feel a very specific kind of anger. What killed him was that he knew on some level, even if he could clear his own name, share the truth, he knew what would happen. Sam’s whining was for shit. Norm would argue Meredith looked or acted older, had been a flirt or a tease. And since Meredith by all accounts, died drinking, the town would believe that. No one would care Sam lied, that Norm was eighteen feeling up a thirteen year old. It would all end up being the fault of the girl who died. Tim hated that. He decided to hold back on telling everyone about it. At least until he could make sure no one blamed Meredith, or tried to argue in Norm’s favour. Maybe he would speak with Bess, ask her advice. Or Rachel. His best friend in many ways, and endless fount of good advice. He’d speak to her too.

  Tim was shaken out of his thoughts as he spotted the bait shop. It was slightly larger than he had expected and if it wasn’t a legitimate log built building, it was designed to look like one. The store dominated the lot but Tim could see a small residence set a ways behind, saving Norm a long drive every morning, or so Tim presumed. The signage was a mix of neatly, hand drawn signs proclaiming what Tim figured were prices that changed regularly, then the larger corporate banners or posters, neon colours promising ‘sport’ and ‘Xtreme’ versions of bait, fishing rods and waders.

Tim saw a figure standing out front of the small house, holding still and watching him.

Aware he was carrying his gun, Tim raised an arm and waved hello and the figure approached carefully, slowly.

“We’re not open yet, friend,” the figure called out and Tim recognised a threat in the tone, an implied warning that this presence wasn’t welcome.

“Norm?” Tim called out, “Dayes? You recognise me at all?”

Norm was getting closer and Tim made a point to check for weapons but Norm carried a coffee mug and nothing about him indicated he had more than that.Tim figured he’d caught the man just as he walked over to the store from his home.

Norm was squinting at him as he got closer. Norm had been handsome in a bland sort of way when they were younger, hair the colour of chestnut, built athletic and big like a lot of Foggy Lake denizens.

 Growing older, he’d hung on to some of his build and muscle, was growing the beginnings of a belly around his middle and somewhere down the road lost a battle with his hairline. He’d lucked out, turned out to be one of those guys that can pull off a totally shaved head.

“You got some balls turnin’ up here,” Norm was close enough to recognise him and it showed in a sneer, a twist to his mouth. “You tried to wreck me.”

“If I had really tried to wreck you I could have done a lot worse,” Tim pointed out. “I was one kid tellin’ the truth. All I ever said was you were there. No more.”

Norm had stopped nearby, possessed enough sense to detect Tim’s youthful, slight appearance was not to be trusted. Maybe it was the cold stare or Tim’s refusal or inability to ever show any real fear.

Norm pulled up, either way. “And why’d you say that?”

Tim shrugged. “It was the truth.

Norm glared at him but he didn’t seem to have much steam for an argument this early in the morning.

“Jesus Christ, Gutterson,” he said. “You look like shit. You want a coffee?”

“You mind?” Tim asked, only realising how much his body needed caffeine once the possibility of a coffee was mentioned.

“Come on, man,” Norm turned, lead him back towards the house.

“You don’t have to open up?” Tim asked.

Norm shrugged, “Benefits of ownin’ a business, I can open when I damn well please.”

“Is it any easier to get vacation time?” Tim asked.

“Naw, boss is still  pain in my ass about it” Norm chuckled at his own joke, glanced back to make sure Tim was as well but his face fell when he saw Tim’s fixed smile.

His house was brighter and cleaner than Tim expected but it lacked the tell-tale signs of co-habitation, family, a few signs of a divorce in a stack of lawyers letters near the fridge, photos awkwardly folded in the frames, so as to edit out unwanted peoples, without tearing the photo up at all.

Norm made small talk while he made up coffees, explained he had been married but the wife cheated, took her kids, Norm’s step kids to Florida. He saw them, talked on the phone sometimes but less and less now she had a new boyfriend. He’d been a bachelor a few years, running his business, trying to expand it.

“Word around town is you went Army? I hear right, you’re a sniper now? You headin’ back soon? I guess all the action is Syria now, huh?” Norm asked as he set down coffees, fixed Tim with that over eager stare Tim was all too used to from certain personality types.

“I joined up, yeah,” he managed, not entirely wanting to be dragged into this conversation, not now, curious Norm was one level of up to date but not others.

“You kill people?” Norm asked, leaning in a little as he did.

“When I had cause,” Tim nodded, feeling a flare of irritation.

“They always said you had it in ya,” Norm nodded, winking. “Right?”

Tim blinked, taken aback Norm would make the joke. He swallowed a powerful urge to turn violent the same one he’d quashed during his talk with Sam the previous night, “You still see much of Cubby?” he asked.

“Sure,” Norm nodded. “Still the same old guy, loves his beer, loves pickin’ fights with people got no idea how they made him mad. Good ole boy, Cubby. How many kills you get?”

“Say, Norm,” Tim stared into his coffee, tried to visualise slapping Norm around without actually acting on the urge, hoped a fantasy vivid enough would satisfy, “I spoke to Bess.”

Norm was still smiling at him. “Bad day yesterday, huh?” he said. “I stop in with her sometimes, see how she is.”

Tim didn’t believe that for a single second. “Yeah she said,” he lied. “So she told me how when she died, Meredith was seein’ someone. Courtin’ I guess.”

He looked up, caught Norm’s smile freeze on his lips, saw the colour drain from his face as his eyes tried to widen before he caught himself, tried to regain control. He was afraid, visibly so, absolutely terrified in fact. This was not the reaction of a creep who had fooled around with a younger girl some twenty years ago, this was much deeper. His eyes bled away from afraid to angry.

“Yeah?” He asked, voice brittle as he tried to play casual.

“Yeah,” Tim nodded. “It was you.”

“You tryna say somethin’?” Norm asked, defensive as all hell.

Tim shook his head. “Just get it straight in my head. I never did understand why I had to lie. Now I know why. You were creepin’ on her.”

“Fuck you, man,” Norm glared at him. “That little bitch had a crush on me, okay? Followed me around like a lost puppy, it was embarassin’”

Tim remembered the general store, the old man who laid into him until Norm and Cubby had come along and hauled him off. He had remembered Meredith as telling the older boys it was her birthday. He remembered now that Norm’s interest in this had been stiff and stilted. Faked, because there was an audience not in on their charade? He didn’t quite remember Meredith telling them where to be. “So embarrassed you came and hung out at our camp site and brought beers and weed? For the birthday girl, that’s what you said when you arrived,” Tim recalled. “Awful confusin’ for a girl you’re embarrassed by.”

Norm had that same helpless look Sam would get, “I’d been drinkin’. Stuff ain’t as embarassin’ when you’re drunk.”

Tim had wanted to see Norm’s face when he was confronted with the facts. Now he had and something was _wrong_. Norm was on edge. The colour that had drained from his face hadn’t come back, his voice remained brittle and sharp, his posture tense. By rights, Tim should have predicted what was going to happen, but Norm must have made an immediate and sudden decision.

He moved, his hip, flowing up his side into his shoulder, his arm. It was a thing to behold, someone who knew how to throw a punch moving to hurt someone. It took the blink of an eye and his hand was smashing the coffee mug into the side of Tim’s head, spilling him out of his chair in a cloud of shattered ceramic and coffee spray.

Tim was spilled out of his chair, ears ringing, vision dipping. Norm was rising from his chair and Tim blinked and Norm was over him, one heavy boot slamming into Tim’s ribs over and over. Norm leaned in, took a handful of Tim’s hair to raise his head and with a closed fist he hit Tim so hard that the lights went out and stayed gone.


	20. Chapter 20

Raylan’s phone rang and he sat up, hitting answer before his eyes were all the way open. “Yeah!” he said, sounding too bright, too enthusiastic to be convincing.

 “It’s after nine,” Rachel Brookes sounded more amused than anything. “Your bird brain of a partner sleeping as well?”

Raylan groaned, swung his legs out of the bed if only to stop himself falling back to sleep. “He isn’t here,” he mumbled into the phone, crossing to the small shelf that contained a kettle, mugs and sachets of instant coffee.

“Out runnin’?” Rachel asked.

“Slept over,” Raylan managed, feeling words slipping away him. He turned the half full kettle on, tipped two sachets of instant coffee into a mug.

“I wasn’t aware he had those kinds of friends in town,” Rachel was saying. Raylan could hear phones behind her, talking voices, one louder than others, cussing and shouting in a strong mountain twang. A normal day for the US Marshals, it sounded like.

“Some deputy. Knew him as a kid. Lied about stuff,” Raylan said.

Rachel was quiet for a moment. “I’ll give you a minute,” she finally said.

Raylan added some sugar and a third sachet to his mug, poured the boiled water over it and stirred quickly. He picked up the mug and inhaled deeply and the smell alone set his synapses firing off, cleared some of the fog from his mind. Rachel was talking just to make noise, telling him things were quiet, by Lexington standards anyway, giving broad updates on any work he’d had to leave behind, nothing she couldn’t repeat when got back.

“Hopefully we’ll leave today,” he told her. He gave her an account of their stay so far, could hear her body tense up when he mentioned Tim getting hurt, Tim distressed in the park, drinking a little more than he needed. He explained what they had learned, everything they had and heard Rachel cursing quietly.

“Jesus,” Rachel breathed. “That’s gotta suck for him,” she said. “Whole town full of people just writes a kid off?”

“People are assholes. That’s why we’re Marshals, Rachel. So we can make the assholes regret bein’ assholes.”

“We can’t make these folks regret a damn thing,” Rachel reminded him.

“I don’t know,” Raylan mused. “Get Bess to talk to people, name the boyfriend…maybe they’ll come around on their own. Maybe it’ll blow the lid off the whole thing, do Tim a few favours.”

Rachel murmured about hoping so and they lapsed into a comfortable silence for a moment.

Raylan sipped his still too hot coffee, ignored the faint burn in his lips and mouth. “You know about him?” he asked Rachel. “His….how bad it was?” he asked the last quietly, and hoped he didn’t sound like he was trying to fish for gossip or some tawdry thing.

“I know a little. I know about his mom,” Rachel said just as quietly. “I knew his father was…just a real, genuinely bad person,” there was an anger there and Raylan briefly considered it a shame Henry hadn’t lived long enough to encounter her.

“Arlo would have liked him,” Raylan said, tone heavy and laced with meaning.

“Right?” Rachel said. “Bosom buddy psychopaths.”

Raylan managed a dry chuckle, not at Tim’s expense but his own, and Arlo’s. He wondered if he’d ever feel grief over the death or if his anger would burn for ever. He realised that someday, he and Tim might benefit from talking to one another about being angry at their dead dads. He almost laughed when he realised Rachel was saying the same thing to him.

“I just thought exactly that,” he told her and she laughed, as dry as his own had been. Another silence passed. She sighed, “he coping okay being there?”

“No,” Raylan said bluntly. “No, he’s not at all if you want my honest answer.”

 “Then make sure whatever he’s hashing out, he finishes up soon. Then bring him home,” Rachel told him.

It felt like an order and Raylan was glad of it, “Yes Ma’am.”


	21. Chapter 21

Tim didn’t want to be sick again. Three times in as many days was too often. Or was it four, now? His hands were numb, his wrists bound with duct tape, twisted painfully behind his back by someone who didn’t know how to do it safely, putting incredible strain on his shoulders. There was an open wound on his head somewhere and blood ran across his face, into one eye, across his lips which made him frantically spit it out, away, triggered some borderline panic response he was fighting to keep in check.

He wasn’t in Norm’s house anymore, not the one behind the bait shop. He had been in a car, could remember some of that, and they were further up the mountain and the rains had started. He could hear it on the roof and windows of whatever cabin they had wound up in. Tim could smell coffee, on his clothes, his skin slightly tender and sore like he’d been sunburned and he had a memory of Norm and a coffee mug and some violence.

He was in a darkened room but he could sense shapes, bulks in the darkness, furniture. A door opened to the outside, flooded the room with natural light. Norm stormed in, saw Tim was waking and grabbed his arm, hauled him upright and outside.

Tims’ feet weren’t bound but Norm like so many people was taller than Tim and Tim had to hop a little to keep up with the longer legs. As they got outside and the brighter light pierced Tim’s eyes, sent a flare of pain running up and down the inside of his skull, he realised being sick was inevitable. His body folded over naturally and he started to puke, Norm cursing, dancing away from the splatter behind his heels. He turned, saw Tim vomiting and groaned, grabbed Tim and shoved him violently off the porch onto the ground below. The heat had dried out the top soil so much that it turned to dirty muddy water under the rain in seconds. Tim stumbled to his knees, onto his side, more agony shrieking through him, this from his shoulder. He lay still for a second, uncertain, half convinced his shoulder had just dislocated, feeling the cool rain rinse blood from his head.

He could hear a car, tyres hissing on the rain soaked road, the engine working as it tried to get up over the hill. He looked up, tried to get up and see who was approaching, suspected Cubby and was right. Cubby had been the defensive linesman to Norm’s quarterback. At first glance it looked like he hadn’t stayed in shape but he didn’t look or move like someone carrying that much soft fat. More than likely, the lack of tone concealed juggernaut like power.

“The fuck is this?!” Cubby was asking, eyeing the bloodied, muddy Tim who was trying so hard to get to his feet.

“He fuckin’ knows, man. Everything. Everything, Cub,” Tim could hear Norm yelling. He didn’t care. He had a leg under him and he was going to sprint for the woods. He still knew them better than anybody. He didn’t need to know what he fuck was going on, not at all, not just yet. But someone swept his leg out from under him. He fell on his side, on his shoulder again. The ground was getting softer each time he hit it, the rain soaked quickly into the eager, thirsty earth. The smell rising from the earth and the surrounding plants would be a dream in any other context but today it was bitter and tart.

Cubby had gotten closer than Tim realised, booted him in the ribs again for good measure while he was down, steel toe boots crunching into Tim’s already tender ribs. Pain exploded across his torso, a white band of agony wrapping around him and crushing tight. It didn’t fade, spread and tightened and crossed his chest and he couldn’t breathe in, couldn’t think clearly, fought to lesson.

“Knows what?” Cubby was asking, ignoring Tim at his feet, gasping for air, trying to relearn to breathe.

“About Meredith! Everything, Cub!” Norm insisted. There was along and tense silence while Cub rolled this news around, got a taste for it. Tim fought past the pain in his chest,  the clawing fear that he couldn’t breathe, tried desperately to catch up, tried to figure out if his phone was still on his person, remember if he’d told anyone he’d be back by a specific time.

Had he closed the search pages when he checked Sam’s laptop?

Cub had leaned over to get a better look at Tim, sniffed like he wasn’t impressed. “Thought he was some special ops badass,” he said, sounding vaguely disappointed. “He don’t look like shit.”

“He _knows,_ ” Norm hissed again.

“I don’t,” Tim managed to say, stalling for time if nothing else, his voice ragged, shaking and weak as he fought to catch even a gasp of air. “I don’t know anything,” he wheezed.

Cub leaned over and grabbed Tim’s throat in one meaty hand, hauled him upright. It was a show of strength as much as anything, a warning that yes, despite his heavy appearance, Cub was someone who could indeed dismantle a man with his bare hands. Tim got his feet under him, had to or risk strangling but his body protested. His chest wanted him to lay down on the ground, curl around the pain and stop for a long time, just stop and let it pass. He tried to focus on Cubby, get his wits about him, some kind of something, a mark to his name.

 “What he tell you?” Cub asked.

“He knows I was goin’ with her,” Norm said, “Bess told him. He knows, Cub.”

Cub squinted back at Tim, who shook his head, his head beginning to hurt and vision cloud as Cub’s meaty hand flexed, choked him. Cub loosened up his hand and Tim sucked air, winced as his chest tightened and pain flared enough to nearly take his legs from under him. “He say anything else?” Cub asked Norm.

Norm hesitated. Tim listened to the rain, tried to see through the fog and size Cub up but the man wasn’t moving enough. “Norm, he say anything else?” Cub demanded.

Tim couldn’t read him physically, but Cub’s tone was all wrong for the situation. He was pissed at Norm but wasn’t overly disturbed at finding a bloodied and bound man at his friends house.

“No,” Norm said quietly and when cub yelled again he shouted it.

“He didn’t say anything else, just he knows you were feelin’ her up?” Cub was saying emphatically, pointedly.

“Shit,” Norm was saying, panicking. “Shit, oh shit.”

“You created a hell of a situation I didn’t fuckin’ need today, Norm,” Cub admonished with a snarl, his hand still locked around Tim’s neck, shaking a little as if to emphasise his presence, the problems it created, “He didn’t know shit before but he does now, you understand?”

“I don’t know,” Tim repeated.

Cub finally turned back to him, let him go and Tim fell in a heap on his arm, heard a pop, rode the wave of shock for a second, before the pain set in. His ribs were briefly forgotten. His left shoulder was out of the socket and Tim lay in the rain and tried to think past the pain that slowly filled his whole body. “What don’t you know?” Cub was asking, jabbing his toe into Tim’s thigh, any pain it caused barely registering.

Tim shook his head, turned and spat blood and rain water into the ground. He took a breath, concentrated until he felt like he could actually speak again, “I came here to see if I was right or not, that’s all.”

Cub reached down again and Tim flinched but Cub sat him upright, crouched nearby. The pain was incredible and Tim made an involuntary sound. It was his shoulder and he was sure he could feel parts of the joint grind together, wanted to pass out, be unconscious to be away from the agony. Cubby grabbed his jaw, shook his focus back “Who else you speak to about it?” he asked.

Tim looked into his eyes, saw no glimmer of sympathy nor concern. He remembered Cubby a little from school, remembered a big, aggressive football player, little else. Cub stared at him, eyes cold, reminding Tim of a shark. Whatever Cubby had grown up to be, he was dangerous in a way Tim recognised professionally and as a human with a healthy survival instinct.

“Nobody,” he said, feeling he should protect Sam. Norm, he realised, had panicked. Surprised him, gotten the best but it was a sucker punch, a knee jerk reaction Tim had ben unlucky enough to be on the wrong end of.

Cubby was the one to be afraid of, the one to tread carefully with. He didn’t like the idea of Cubby surprising anyone.

“You’re here with some lanky streak of piss, says he’s law. You law too?” Cubby asked, his fingers digging into Tim’s jaw, hard.

Tim gritted his teeth and swallowed a glob of something that tasted bloody he wanted to spit in Cub’s face, “US Marshals Service,” he said.

Cub sighed, long and tired. “You got law, comin’ to your home and you’re launchin’ assaults before you even know if you’re in trouble. Why do I bother with you, Norm?” he turned to his old friend.

“You ain’t got much choice,” Norm said, sounding sullen.

With less warning than Norm had given, Cub swung a hand into Tim’s jaw, sending him reeling into the dirt. Tim was dazed, lay in the mud trying to remember how to spell his name.

“What do we do, Cubby?” Norm called over.

Cub thought about something. “We’ll take him to the Cliff.”


	22. Chapter 22

Raylan was driving with the windows down, ignoring the rain coming through the window, relishing the relief from the sweaty heat, enjoying the smell of freshly saturated earth. Thunder rumbled, distant and faint but Raylan liked how it sounded. If he were a more artistically inclined man he would have a nice camera and he’d stop, take photos of the grey storm clouds nestled amongst the mountains and the trees, creeping further down. Raylan reached Sam’s farm and found the man sipping coffee, half dressed for work and standing on his porch to admire the rain, or just get a look who was driving towards his house.

Raylan parked up and got out, let his long legs carry him rather than make any great effort to rush out of the rain. “Pretty relieved it finally broke,” Sam called by way of greeting. “Tim with you? He left in a hurry this morning, didn’t say much. Didn’t say anything, actually.”

Something about how Sam said it gave Raylan pause, made something click internally about the exact nature of Tim and Sam’s sleep over. He spared it a few seconds thought, figured it made some sense, “Oh he did?” he asked.

“Yeah. I mean he was kinda fired up when he came over,” Sam said, watching Raylan carefully. “Guess he didn’t feel much better when he woke up.” He pulled a face like he was disappointed, felt sorry for himself.

“Well…you’re a pretty terrible person,” Raylan said, letting Sam know that yes, he had heard what Bess said, knew how far Sam’s lies had taken him. “It’s one thing to lie because an adult told you to. You lied knowin’ there was information cops should be told. You got a badge knowin’ what you did,” he drawled the words but let real anger lace his tone, saw Sam’s own very real anger flash to the surface for a second.

“So my ‘I was a kid’ defence has run it’s course?” Sam asked him.

Raylan shrugged, “Try it out, see what happens.”

He was spoiling for a fight, he had to admit. Anger was where he felt safest, worked best and he was settling into this, happy to focus it on Sam for a while, until he was given reason to direct it elsewhere. He felt protective of Tim in a way he’d never admit to out loud, something he might call fraternal if you asked him. Tim was a moody little shit and a wise ass but as Raylan was learning he’d earn the right to be that way through many hard years.

Sam rolled his eyes and visibly made a decision not to address the confrontation in Raylan’s tone, maybe even his posture if you wanted to look at it that way. “Tim’s not with you then?” he asked again.

Raylan shook his head, felt the beginnings of something like worry sap at the anger. “I was over here to ask you the same thing,” he admitted. “He sent me an email, said he had some people to talk to, his battery was low but he could be reached. He can’t be reached, I been trying. We’re bein’ called back in, we have to go home,” it was half true, an exaggeration of Rachel’s request perhaps. “So since he’s not here with you enjoyin’ breakfast, he must be talkin’ to these people. Any idea who? Or where?”

Sam pressed his lips together. “Talk to?” he asked, thinking on it, “he mention what about?”

“At a guess, it’s about all those lies everyone told for so long?” Raylan shrugged, sarcasm lacing his words.

Sam glared at him for a heartbeat but he was thinking, turned to look back inside the house, “Gimme me a minute, he might have used my laptop.”

He ducked back inside and Raylan blew out a frustrated breath, wished he had worn the hat today. Sam came back quickly.

 “Norm, he’s gone to see Norm,” he said urgently. “Norm’ll call Cubby and Cubby’s….he’s a real piece of shit, career criminal, thug… he’s…this’ll get ugly, fast. We need to get up there,” he paused, glanced over at Raylan. “Follow me in your car or ride shotgun, I don’t care.”

Raylan’s heartrate spiked, adrenaline flowing. He followed Sam to the patrol car and reached for his phone, dialling Tim’s number again and again.


	23. Chapter 23

Tim needed an out, needed an exit strategy and he had nothing. He was face down on plastic sheeting in the back of Cub’s truck and they were driving to the Cliff, a rocky outcrop that overlooked a deceptively shallow part of the lake. In summer it was a fun picnic spot, a narrow creek trickling over the cliff edge and into the lake, a narrow and wispy waterfall. When the weather turned and rain fell the whole thing was a slippery death trap, slick stone and a creek swelled to a rushing torrent. The water below concealed a shallow rocky pool. The fall was a fatal one, had claimed human and animals lives over the years.

They meant to throw him over, he knew. He knew because he’d been threatened with it a dozen times as a kid, by the bullies, by Henry more than once.

As an angry and frustrated teen, after Henry put him in the hospital, before he got his wits about him and left his shitty home town, Tim had found himself up at the Cliff on stormy night, watching the rushing torrent and wondering if he could be the kind to throw himself into it. He’d die at the bottom, he knew for a fact, smashed to death on the rocks, or drowned after breaking all his bones on the hidden stones. Ultimately, he wasn’t the kind. Cub had beers in his truck and was working on them as he drove, encouraging the rattled Norm to join him.

Tim laid silent, fighting not to cry out every time the truck rattled or bounced over the roads, jostled his shoulder and ribs and sent new waves of pain through him. His left hand was going numb and cold and he knew he had to correct the joint soon or risk long term damage but that was a lower priority right now. Right now the plan was stay alive.

The truck stopped and a door opened and Tim was dragged from the back seat and tossed on the ground, hurting everything, his ribs and shoulder flaring together. Tim found another moment of calm induced by something like shock. Up here, the sky was darker, the rain heavier and Tim could already hear a rushing torrent of water behind the trees.

“What are we doin’?” Norm was asking. “What are we doin’, man?”

“We’re un-taping his hands and tossin’ him in the creek. He goes over, he drowns,” Cub shrugged, casually hauling Tim to his feet, sending waves of pain through him, his words confirming Tim’s suspicions.  

“Aw, Jesus,” Norm said. “Give me a minute, Jesus. Jesus.”

“Looks like suicide!” Cubby said as if Norm’s concern was that he didn’t understand _why_ they would do it, not that they were considering it at all.

Cub leaned in, grabbed his left arm and dragged him and Tim almost blacked out, his legs actually bowing and sending him tumbling. Cub cursed but let him fall, kicked him in the hip in retaliation. Tim curled up instinctively, pulled his legs in, tried to be small. He was stalling, hoped any show of weakness might draw things out, give him time.

Cub sucked his teeth, leaned over and shoved Tim onto his front, cut his hands free with a pen knife from his pocket. He was not gentle nor slow and he sliced into Tim’s left hand, just enough feeling lingering for Tim to know. The feel of metal on his skin made Tim’s heart rattle in his chest. Cubby had a knife, a small one but a knife, a sharp blade. Even knowing Cubby’s plan Tim wondered if he would feel his wrists or his throat cut, feel the blade bite into him. He froze, waited. Cubby pulled the tape away , checked Tim’s wrists and sucked his teeth again at the bruises there. There would be little they could do to conceal the fact he’d been bound for a spell. If his body was found there would be evidence of foul play at least. The thought wasn’t terribly comforting, oddly enough.

Cubby stepped back and Tim fought not to stay frozen, still took a moment before he could unlock his limbs, force them to move. Slowly, he pushed himself up, found he could lean back against the truck. He glanced at Norm but kept his focus on Cubby.

Cub was working on a beer, watching him. “Seriously…I thought you was Seal Team 6 or fuckin’ Hawkeye or whatever,” he said to Tim.

 Tim concentrated on the rain, the cold and chill that it was sending through him. He was shivering, maybe the cold but likely mostly shock. He examined the cut on his hand, deep and messy and likely wanting for stitches. Even the cursory examination made the agony from his shoulder flare anew and he held still, tried not to move, not to exist, think or feel too much. He wanted an out, to stall for time but he there was a faint resignation in his belly, not an unfamiliar sensation. He’d had it before during combat, suspected most soldiers and law folks did; it was the calm understanding you were going to die, the classic and maybe a little clichéd understanding of your own mortality.

His heart slowed, his mind cleared a little with the strange calmness that came with accepting your outlook was particularly bleak. He found that anger he was so used to, that fuelled him so well most of the time, clung to it.

“So what’s the story?” Cub said and Tim realised he was the one being addressed. He looked up at the older man as Cub. “Why ain’t you some badass? You didn’t see Norm comin’?”

“I was a sniper, I wasn’t a fuckin’ psychic,” Tim snarled, the comment hitting a nerve he didn’t expect.

“Sniper? Marines?” Cubby frowned, letting the defiance slip unpunished.

“Rangers,” Tim said firmly.

Cubby shook his head, “You joinin’ the army, tryna be some hero. You don’t look like no hero.”

Tim wondered if he’d noticed the duct tape, the bleeding head wound and other clues Tim may not be at his most dangerous and capable. “I forgot my cape,” Tim said.

Cub smirked, “Cape.”

“And your bitch friend sucker punched me,” Tim glared at the pensive Norm, the man pacing nearby, trying to smoke in the rain and failing.

“He did,” he agreed. “Still don’t mean you’re some badass, Gutterson.”

“Give me time,” Tim told him. Cub laughed a little at that, swigged his beer and glanced around like he had all the time in the world. “Do I get to know?” Tim asked.

Cub turned back to him, examined him for a while. He glanced around again. The cleared lot was an unofficial parking space for the Cliff and if you stood you could see some of the view the Cliff gave you. Cub examined it a while. “What do you think happened?”

Tim shook his head. “I didn’t think a fuckin’ thing, Cubby. I came to town because Bess asked me. I only ever thought you all came, smoked with us and left. I thought that ‘til that dipshit over there smashed a mug over my head,” he motioned to Norm.

“And now?” Cub asked, “What you think now?”

“I’ve only had a minute to give it some thought,” Tim reminded him. “For some reason I’m leanin’ towards the idea you killed her.”

Cubby laughed, shook his head and said nothing. He looked over at his friend. “Norm, you ready yet?”

“Ffffuck,” Norm was hissing, in tears now.

Cubby looked disappointed and harried. “Get over here, grab his arm and help me.”

Distressed as he was, Norm approached. But Tim’s hands were free now. His mind began to race, ideas formulating quickly. Norm reached for his bad arm and Tim took a chance. Norm hauled him up roughly. Tim let himself rise, then let his knees go limp. Norm braced and tried to hold him up, the natural instinct to prevent the fall and Tim threw himself into the fall. Tim heard a pop, felt a strangely satisfying burst of pain as his shoulder was yanked back into place.

“Norm, god damn it,” Cubby let Tim’s other arm drop and he lay there between their feet as Cubby dressed Norm down, again.

The sharp pain was fading rapidly to a dull ache and Tim’s hand was already itchy and burning as blood returned, bringing feeling with it. The ragged wound began to hurt in earnest, the protection of numbness leaving him.

Tim waited until they reached for him again and when they did, he let them haul him up, bringing his hands level with Cubby’s pocket. They began to drag him forwards and he dug his heels in, made noise, protested. He fought them, created enough movement to conceal his hand slipping into Cubby’s pocket and grabbing the pen knife. It was like he touched a cable or got a shot. A calmness flowed through him, instincts taking over.

Now he had a knife.

He thumbed open the blade and jammed it into Cubby’s thigh and twisted. The big man screamed, jerked blindly away from the pain and Tim let him, yanking his arm free of Cubby’s hand and slashing the knife around towards Norm.

It was a bastardised version of a Ranger move and if he completed it he could leave Norm essentially eviscerated but Tim adapted, held back so all he did was bloody Norm up, leave him on the ground squealing.

Huge, powerful arm wrapped around him from behind, pinning Tim’s arms to his sides. Cubby was dragging him backwards, hobbling on his injured leg but still strong, squeezing him. Tim saw black spots. His chest was on fire, a broken rib or something similar being crushed under Cubby’s arms. Cubby turned and swung him and Tim hit the side of the truck. The impact, the pain it triggered took the breath out of his lungs but Tim fought it, caught himself as he fell.

 Cubby was still coming after him but Tim rose to meet him got under and between Cubby’s reaching arms and drove his knee up into Cubby’s groin hard enough he hoped something ruptured. Cubby folded in half and Tim moved instinctively, moved back so he could grab Cubby’s hair, shove his head down as he brought his knee up a second time and crushed Cubby’s nose.

Cubby collapsed, wheezing and gagging on the blood quickly filling his mouth and throat and Tim let him fall, stepping over him and advancing on Norm.

The other man crawled backwards, terrified and shaking his head, his eyes flicking between Tim’s face and the knife as if he couldn’t decide which one was more frightening, more of a threat, the man or the one holding it.

“Please, please man I didn’t want him to do anythin’, I didn’t…”he was whimpering. Tim saw his eyes move, widen, turned in time to duck under Cubby’s arm again, didn’t have time to get out of the way completely.

Cubby let his body weight do the work, his old football skills coming to the fore as he half pushed, half dragged Tim down. Tim brought the knife up but Cubby was strong, faster than Tim was prepared for and he caught Tim’s wrist, twisted tried to pull the knife away. Tim knew his gun was somewhere, knew it couldn’t be at hand if Cubby didn’t already have it, but he didn’t have eyes on everything. He felt that panic he’d been fending off all day trying to rise in his chest.

Cubby was trying to crawl on top of him, calling for Norm while he tried to pin Tim down with his body weight. Tim had fallen twisted, trapped under Cubby, couldn’t get the right leverage to fight him off.

He was still fighting to keep control of the knife when he saw Norm getting to his feet, rushing over. He kicked Tim’s hand and the knife was thrown clear and Norm leant in to join the struggle, trying to hold Tim down. Cubby got a hand around Tim’s throat, yelling at Norm to hold him as he shifted his weight, got better leverage and squeezed. Tim choked but Cubby kept moving, trying to get up, “Pull him, drag him!” he was ordering Norm, oblivious his weight was pinning Tim’s legs, was making that impossible, that until he got up they would remain in a tangle.

Cubby squeezed his throat again, harder and Tim had tried to grab at his arm, fought for breath, heard Norm yelling at Cubby to get up, Cubby yelling at Norm to drag, both men shouting over one another, their communication all for shit.

There was a pop and something hot sprayed across Tim’s face, half blinding him but some of the strain, the pressure on his arms fell away and seconds later Cubby’s hands were being dragged away from his neck, people were shouting and yelling. Tim moved instinctively, tried to crawl backwards as the rain washed his face, his eyes clean.

He looked up, saw tall figures wrestling with Cubby, cuffing him.

Tim got his good hand under him, sat up and saw Sam crouching beside Norm, checking a bullet wound high on his shoulder, Raylan kneeling on Cubby’s back, locking cuffs in place and securing the big man.

He looked up, got a look at Tim and shook his head. “From now on you only travel around town with a god damn escort!”


	24. Chapter 24

“Norman Dayes says when you turned up talking about the diaries he panicked,” Raylan Givens was comfortable in the deep arm chair, leaning back and sprawling his long legs out in front of him.

Tim sat in his hospital bed, cleaned up some, checked over some. A rib was broken, another cracked and his torso was wrapped in bandages that covered rapidly darkening bruises. His arm rested in a sling, his shoulder heavily taped and he had been diagnosed with a concussion, likely from the same head injuries that left his cuts all over his scalp, bruises decorating half his face.

He was staring hard at Raylan, trying to focus through a fog of pain killers. “Panicked? My casual tone must have come on too strong.”

“Maybe you’re just a badass and he saw you and got scared on principle,” Raylan joked.

Tim managed a weak, watered down smile, “that’s probably what happened,” he waved his one good arm vaguely at his bruised and battered visage. “I mean, look at me.”

Raylan laughed, kept on with his account. “Norman broke down as soon as he was in custody, claimed he and Meredith went  ‘all the way’ the night of her birthday, very much at Meredith’s request. When asked how he was certain she wanted it, he admitted she hadn’t specifically said ‘yes’ as such but her _body language_ …” Raylan trailed off, saw a look of disgust on Tim’s face he recognised as the same one he’d worn when he’d heard Norman speak.

 “Cubby….” Raylan shrugged, “Norm tells us Cubby must have followed him to the meeting and caught them together. He forced himself on Meredith, against Norm’s wishes but Norm was just too gee dee scared to stop it,” Rayan watched Tim sneer at the idea Norm made any attempt to help the girl.

“Poor, heroic Norm,” Tim drawled, the drugs dragging it out even longer than normal. “I do recall him callin’ her a ‘little bitch’ when we spoke about her. Nice guy,” he drawled in that dry, sarcastic tone he did so well.

Raylan nodded. “He’s a piece of work. He also blames Cubby entirely for what happened to you. Norm simply panicked. It's that rascal Cubby got all murder happy.”

“Norm is havin’ a really bad day,” Tim joked in another laconic drawl. “I sure hope things pick up for him.”

Raylan laughed softly, nodded. “Cubby clammed up, denies anything, wont even admit he knows you, with your ID in his pockets, your gun in his tool box and your blood on his backseat,” Raylan said. “I could ask him what day today is and he’d tell me no comment. Boy is a career criminal.”

“Cubby’s a real serious asshole,” Tim said, sharing Raylan’s distaste for the whole enraging mess.

“He is,” Raylan agreed. “Norm too. Norm…Norm in his eagerness to confess is adamant, absolutely adamant that when they left Meredith was alive. She was crying and maybe beat up some but she remained absolutely alive.”

Tim took a deep breath but winced quickly, visibly regretted it but tried to play it off.

“Her mother know?” he asked Raylan, turning to him.

Raylan nodded. “Sam’s over there and, he says, about a dozen local women playin’ big sister, takin’ care of her. She’s got a lot of support. She’s hoping to see you eventually, she says.”

Tim seemed happy with the answer but looked pained as he breathed in again.

He exhaled slowly, “that nurse give me a button for morphine?” he asked.

Raylan pointed it out and Tim pushed it once, waited a moment before a calm spread over his face. “You want some?”

“I do. But I’m not injured,” Raylan reminded him calmly,” and there’s all these rules about drugs. Might even call them laws.”

“Sucks to be you,” Tim said and Raylan simply smiled.Tim thought on it a while and a gloomy look settled over his features. “How much did anyone else know? The Sheriff? Norm’s dad?” he asked. It was far more than just a question. He had been made a pariah on the back of the lies. Rapists had walked free for twenty five years. As he asked it, it seemed to occur to Tim what this meant. He blinked, expression growing cold as if preparing for an even harder answer than the reality he'd been living.

Raylan shrugged, wished he had a better answer. “Right now, that’s yet to be determined. Norm..." Raylan paused, didn't want to be the one to deliver bad news. "Norm gave answers that indicate his father knew everything. Might have gotten outside help."

Though on Tim it was a small thing, he took the news like a physical blow, leant back in his pillows. He was wide eyed and looked hurt, like a kid learning just how much the class really hated him.

"Vasquez called me. He said if they prove anyone even heard a rumour of what happened he'll burn everyone. He's fired up to hell. He'll make this all right. If nothing else, he said right now you might of blown the lid of some profound corruption within the police force up here. Tim nodded while he stared at an opposite wall and Raylan watched as a physical effort was exerted. The wide eyed betrayal was gone and Tim's familiar sullen mask slid back into place. It was disconcerting, but disheartening to. It was watching someone simply accept an incredible cruelty, process, move on.  “Vasquez sends his well wishes. He says uh, Great work.”

Tim blinked and something dark left him, “I should think he did. This is exactly how I planned it,” he deadpanned. “From the very start.” Raylan had to smile at the joke. Whether it was Tim repressing something, or just how he coped, Raylan was back on more sure footing when the kid was joking around. 

“Oh,” Raylan teased. “I could tell. Especially getting your ass beat at the bar. Master stroke.”

Tim nodded, morphine glazing his eyes, loosening his shoulders and even better, Raylan realised, his mood, “it all just played right into my hands. I’m a lot smarter than I look.”

“Oh, good. Because you look dumb as a sack of ham.” Raylan said.

“Pigs are intelligent animals,” Tim told him.

Raylan sighed, shook his head like the world weary old timer. “Not by the time they’re ham, Tim.”


End file.
